“How small my hand looks there,” she said, “too small.”  Dan put it softly back on the bedclothes and wiped his forehead.  Pasiance cried in a sharp whisper:  “Is it so hot in here?  I didn’t know.”  Dan bent down, put his lips to her fingers and left the room.

The afternoon was long, the longest I’ve ever spent.  Sometimes she seemed to sleep, sometimes whispered to herself about her mother, her grandfather, the garden, or her cats—­all sorts of inconsequent, trivial, even ludicrous memories seemed to throng her mind—­never once, I think, did she speak of Zachary, but, now and then, she asked the time....  Each hour she grew visibly weaker.  John Ford sat by her without moving, his heavy breathing was often the only sound; sometimes she rubbed her fingers on his hand, without speaking.  It was a summary of their lives together.  Once he prayed aloud for her in a hoarse voice; then her pitiful, impatient eyes signed to me.

“Quick,” she whispered, “I want him; it’s all so—­cold.”

I went out and ran down the path towards the cove.

Leaning on a gate stood Zachary, an hour before his time; dressed in the same old blue clothes and leather-peaked cap as on the day when I saw him first.  He knew nothing of what had happened.  But at a quarter of the truth, I’m sure he divined the whole, though he would not admit it to himself.  He kept saying, “It can’t be.  She’ll be well in a few days—­a sprain!  D’ you think the sea-voyage....  Is she strong enough to be moved now at once?”

It was painful to see his face, so twisted by the struggle between his instinct and his vitality.  The sweat poured down his forehead.  He turned round as we walked up the path, and pointed out to sea.  There was his steamer.  “I could get her on board in no time.  Impossible!  What is it, then?  Spine?  Good God!  The doctors....  Sometimes they’ll do wonders!” It was pitiful to see his efforts to blind himself to the reality.

“It can’t be, she’s too young.  We’re walking very slow.”  I told him she was dying.

For a second I thought he was going to run away.  Then he jerked up his head, and rushed on towards the house.  At the foot of the staircase he gripped me by the shoulder.

“It’s not true!” he said; “she’ll get better now I’m here.  I’ll stay.  Let everything go.  I’ll stay.”

“Now’s the time,” I said, “to show you loved her.  Pull yourself together, man!” He shook all over.

“Yes!” was all he answered.  We went into her room.  It seemed impossible she was going to die; the colour was bright in her cheeks, her lips trembling and pouted as if she had just been kissed, her eyes gleaming, her hair so dark and crisp, her face so young....

Half an hour later I stole to the open door of her room.  She was still and white as the sheets of her bed.  John Ford stood at the foot; and, bowed to the level of the pillows, his head on his clenched fists, sat Zachary.  It was utterly quiet.  The guttering of the leaves had ceased.  When things have come to a crisis, how little one feels—­no fear, no pity, no sorrow, rather the sense, as when a play is over, of anxiety to get away!