But Cicely's grasp did not tighten; the fury that had risen within her had taken all her strength, and now she lay back white and still. Eve, like a person in a dream, went down to the beach and dipped her handkerchief in the water; slowly she came back, and bathed Cicely's forehead and wrists. But still Cicely did not stir. Eve put her hand on her heart. It was beating faintly. She stooped, and lifted Cicely in her arms, holding her as one holds a child, with one arm round her shoulders and the other under her knees, Cicely's head lying against her breast. Then she began her long walk back. XXXII. The stars were fading, there was a band of clear light in the east over the sea, when Eve reached the veranda of Romney again; with pauses for rest, she had carried her sister all the way. Cicely was small and light, her weight was scarcely more than that of a child; still, owing to the distance, the effort had been great, and Eve's strength was exhausted. She put her burden gently down on the floor of the veranda, and stood leaning against one of the wooden pillars, with her arms hanging by her sides to rest them; they were numb and stiff, almost paralyzed; she began to be afraid lest she should not be able to raise them again; she went to the window to try. The effort of lifting the sash drew a groan of anguish from her. But Cicely did not hear it; she remained unconscious. The dawn grew brighter, soon the sun would appear. It was not probable that at this early hour any one would pass this uninhabited end of the house; still, negroes were inconsequent; Pomp and Plato might be seized with a fancy to come; if she could only get Cicely back to her room unseen, there need be no knowledge of their midnight expedition. She knelt down beside her, and chafed her hands and temples; she spoke her name with insistence: "Cicely! Cicely!"--she put the whole force of her will into the effort of reaching the dormant consciousness, wherever it was, and compelling it to waken. "Cicely!" She looked intently at Cicely's closed eyes. Cicely stirred, her dark-fringed lids opened; her vague glance caught the gleam of the sound. "Where are we?" she asked. "We came out for a walk," Eve answered. "Do you think you could climb in--I mean by the window? I am afraid I cannot lift you." "Of course I can. Why shouldn't I?" She did it as lightly and easily as ever; she was in perfect possession of all her faculties. Eve followed her. Then she drew down the sash with the same effort. "What is the matter with your arms?" Cicely asked. "You move them as though they were rusty." "I think they _are_ rusty." They went through the ballroom, now looking very prosaic, flooded with the light of the rising sun. "We're always tramping through this old room," said Cicely. When she reached the door of her own chamber, she abruptly drew Eve in. "Well--are you going to leave me forever?" "Not unless you send me away." "Is it on baby's account that you stay?"