She looked at the sightless eyes, and a passionate protest sprang to her
lips which, in spite of herself, broke forth in a sort of moan.
"What is it?" Ingolby asked, with startled face.
"Nothing," she answered, "nothing. I pricked my finger badly, that's
all."
And, indeed, she had done so, but that would not have brought the moan to
her lips.
"Well, it didn't sound like a pricked finger complaint," he remarked. "It
was the kind of groan I'd give if I had a bad pain inside."
"Ah, but you're a man!" she remarked lightly, though two tears fell down
her cheeks.
With an effort she recovered herself. "It's time for your tonic," she
added, and she busied herself with giving it to him. "As soon as you have
taken it, I'm going for a walk, so you must make up your mind to have
some sleep."
"Am I to be left alone?" he asked, with an assumed grievance in his
voice.
"Madame Bulteel will stay with you," she replied.
"Do you need a walk so very badly?" he asked presently.
"I don't suppose I need it, but I want it," she answered. "My feet and
the earth are very friendly."
"Where do you walk?" he asked.
"Just anywhere," was her reply. "Sometimes up the river, sometimes down,
sometimes miles away in the woods.
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