"I know. I'm sure I can do everything necessary for her. I've had some experience with sickness before." The doctor nodded, a look of relief and satisfaction passing over his face. "I see that you have. Get her to drink this. She must have some sleep at once." But when Sylvia, left alone with her, held the glass to Edith's lips, she shrank back in terror. "No, no, no! I don't want to go to sleep--I mustn't--I shall dream!" "Dear child, you won't--and if you do, I shall be right here beside you, holding your hand like this, and you can feel it, and know that, after all, dreams are slight things." "You promise me?" "Indeed I do." "Oh, Sylvia, you're so brave--you told the doctor you'd taken care of some one that was sick before--who was it?" It was Sylvia's turn to shudder, but she controlled it quickly, and spoke very quietly. "I was married for two years to a man who finally died of delirium tremens. No paid nurse--would have stayed with him--through certain times. I can't tell you about it, dear, and I'm trying hard to forget it--you won't ask me about it again, will you?" "Oh, _Sylvia_! Please forgive me! I--I didn't guess--I'll drink the medicine--or do anything else you say!" So Edith fell asleep, and when she woke again, the sun was setting, and Sylvia still sat beside her, their fingers intertwined. Sylvia looked down, smiling. "The doctor has been here to see you, but you didn't wake, and we both felt it was better not to disturb you. He thinks that all is going well with you. Will you drink some milk, and let me bathe your face and hands?" "No--not--not yet. Have you really been here--all these hours?" "Yes, dear." "With no rest--nothing to eat or drink?" "Oh, yes, Austin brought me my dinner, but I ate it sitting beside you, and wouldn't let him stay--he's so big, he can't help making a noise." "Does he know?" "Not yet." "And father and mother?" Sylvia was silent. "Oh, Sylvia, I'm a wicked, wicked girl, but I'm not what you must think! I'm not a--a murderess! Peter came up behind me on the stairs in the dark last night, and spoke to me suddenly. It startled me--everything seems to have startled me lately--and I slipped, and fell, and hurt myself--I didn't do it on purpose." "You poor child--you don't need to tell me that--I never would have believed it of you for a single instant." Then she added, in the strained voice which she could not help using on the very rare occasions when she forced herself to speak of something that had occurred during her marriage, but still as if she felt that no word which might give comfort should be left unsaid, "Perhaps your mother has told you that the little baby who died when it was two weeks old wasn't the first that I--expected. A fall or--or a blow--or any shock of--fear or grief--often ends--in a disaster like this." "Will the others believe me, too?" "Of course they will. Don't talk, dear, it's going to be all right."