So she knelt for a long moment until Spike sighed, shivered, and sat up, but beholding the look in her wide eyes, uttered a hoarse sound that was like a cry of fear and, starting from her nearness, crouched down, huddled upon his knees.

Then Hermione rose and, turning to the old man, smiled with pallid lips.

“You see—­he’s all right—­now!” she said.  “If you’ll please go and tell Mrs. Trapes I’m leaving, I’ll get ready.”  Obediently the Old Un rose.

“Mrs. Trapes is a-gettin’ into her bonnet to come along wi’ us!” said he, and putting on his hat with a flourish, took his departure.  When he was gone, Hermione turned and looked down at Spike, who, meeting her eyes, flinched as from a blow and made no effort to rise from his knees.  So she packed her grip and dressed for the journey, while he watched her with eyes of mute appeal.  Twice he would have spoken, but her look smote him to silence.  At last, as she took up her suit case and turned to go, he implored her in a hoarse whisper, reaching out his arms to her:  “Hermy!”

But she shrank from his contact and, hastening from the room and along the little passage, closed the door and left him to his hopeless misery.  As one in a dream she followed the old man down the stairs, was aware of his ushering her through the crowd of women and children who thronged about the big car.  As one in a dream she found herself seated beside Mrs. Trapes, whose motherly solicitude she heeded no more than the bustle and traffic of the streets through which the swift car whirled her on and on until, turning, it swung in between massive gates and pulled up before a great, gloomy house.

As one in a dream she ascended the broad steps, crossed a stately hall, was ushered up a noble stairway and along thick-carpeted corridors until at last she found herself in a darkened chamber where, his dark head conspicuous upon the white pillow, he lay.  A nurse rose from beside the bed as Hermione entered and softly withdrew.  Left alone, she stood for a long moment utterly still, her hands tightly clasped, her breath in check, gazing at that dark head upon the pillow, at that outstretched form lying so silent and so very still.

“Hermione!”

A feeble whisper, a sigh faintly breathed, but at the sound she had crossed the wide chamber on feet swift and noiseless, had sunk upon her knees beside the low bed to lean above him all murmurous love and sighing tenderness, while she stole a timid hand to touch the hair that curled upon his pallid brow; then, for all his helplessness, she flushed beneath his look.

“How beautiful—­you are!” he said faintly, “and I—­weak as—­confounded rat!  Hermione—­love, they tell me I—­must die.  But first I want you for—­my very own if only for—­a little while!”

“Oh, my dear,” she whispered, soft mouth against his pale cheek, “I always was yours—­yours from the very first; I always shall be.”