She could think of nothing but the evil she had done
and of the atonement that had been denied her. It was to no purpose
that she worked unceasingly for the wounded. The sense of
responsibility never left her. Each moan, each death-sigh brought the
same meaning to her ear: "You have helped to do this--this is your
work."
"No help will come," Mrs. Carmichael said, shaking her head at the
darkness. "When a whole province rises as this has done, it takes
months to organize a sufficient force, and we shan't last out many
days. I wonder what people in England are saying. How well I can see
them over their breakfast cups! Oh, dear, I mustn't think of breakfast
cups, or I shall lose my nerve." She laughed under her breath, and
there was a long silence.
Presently the door of the bungalow opened, letting in a stream of
moonlight. It was closed instantly, and soft footfalls came over the
boarded floor.
"Who is it?" Mrs. Carmichael whispered.
"I--Lois," was the answer. The new-comer crept down by Beatrice's side
and leaned her head against the warm shoulder. "I am so tired," she
said faintly. "I have been with Archibald. He has been moaning so. Mr.
Berry says he is afraid mortification has set in. It is terrible."
"Poor little woman!" Beatrice put her arm about the slender figure and
drew her closer. "Lay your head on my lap and sleep a little. You can
do no good just now."
"Thank you.
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