XXIII
Shan’t opened her eyes. She opened them just as naturally as she used to open them every morning of her life.
She looked first at Marcus, then at Elsie. Then she looked at his hand on hers, then at Aunt Elsie’s hand on hers, and she smiled.
“Shan’t?” said Marcus, and suddenly Elsie wanted to cry. He should not have said it like that—she hadn’t been prepared for it.
“Speak to her,” he said.
“Shan’t,” whispered Elsie.
“Shan’t-if-I-don’t-want-to,” said Shan’t, and then she laughed: tried to laugh. Most pathetic of all efforts is that of the sick child who tries to laugh. No laugh brings so quickly tears to the eyes of those who watch—who have so lately wondered that there could be any one in the world with the heart to laugh!
Then Shan’t pulled her hand from under Uncle Marcus’s hand, and her other hand from under Aunt Elsie’s, and taking Uncle Marcus’s hand laid it on Aunt Elsie’s—and having done all that she went to sleep. She was tired—and naturally.
She had done—weak and ill—what the strongest man would not have dared to do.
“How are the dogs?” whispered Marcus.
“Very good—and so obedient,” said Elsie softly.
THE END