"Oh, that dreadful light!" she moaned. "If it would only go out! It will
send me mad. Oh, if it would only go out--only go out!"
Her companion made no immediate answer. She stood by the wall, her
shoulders slightly hunched, her hands clasped before her in an attitude of
fixed, sullen defiance. What her features expressed it was impossible to
tell, since they were hidden by the deep shadow in which she had taken up
her position. The rest of the apartment was lit with a grey, ghostly
light, the reflection from the courtyard, in part visible through the open
doorway, and which lay bathed in all the brilliancy of a full Indian moon.
"When the light goes out, it will mean that the end has come," she said at
last. "Do you know that, Christine?"
"Yes, I know it," the other answered piteously; "but that's what I
want--the end. I am not afraid to die. I know Harry will be there. He will
not let it be too hard for me. It's the suspense I can not bear. The
suspense is worse than death. I have died a dozen times tonight, and
suffered as I am sure God will not let us suffer."
Margaret Caruthers bent over the cowering figure with the sympathy which
education provides when the heart fails to perform its office. There was,
indeed, little tenderness in the hand which passed lightly over Christine
Stafford's feverish forehead.
"You give God credit for a good deal," she said indifferently. "If the
light troubles you, shall I shut the door?"
Christine sprang half upright.
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