They were all to blame, and this was the
harvest, the punishment for the neglect of a heavy responsibility. The
thought that she had been unjust was iron through Mrs. Carmichael's
soul, for above all things she prided herself on her fairness. She
pushed her work away and went over to Beatrice's side. Mrs. Cary's
head still rested against the aching shoulder, and Mrs. Carmichael
made a sign to let her improvize a cushion substitute. Beatrice shook
her head.
"No, thank you," she whispered, glancing down at the flushed, sleeping
face. "We have done each other so little real service that I am glad
to be able to do even this much. I don't suppose it will be for long.
How quiet everything is!"
Mrs. Carmichael looked at the clock on the writing-table.
"It is not yet midnight," she said. "Probably the Rajah is keeping his
promise." Her expression relaxed a little. "Don't tire yourself," she
added bruskly to Mrs. Berry, who had been fanning the unconscious
woman's face with an improvized paper fan. "I don't think she feels
the heat."
The missionary's wife continued her good work with redoubled energy.
It was perhaps one of the few really unselfish things which she had
ever done in the course of a pious but fundamentally selfish life, and
it gave her pleasure and courage. The knowledge that some one was
weaker than herself and needed her was new strength to her new-born
heroism.
"It is so frightfully hot," she said half apologetically.
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