"Gertrude, Gertrude, what has happened to you? Have I come--Oh, Gerty, have I come too late?" "No," said Gertrude, "but she is very ill." Lucy put her arms round her sister. "And I have left you alone through these days. Oh, my poor Gerty." They went upstairs together, and Lucy passed into the invalid's room, Gertrude remaining in the outer apartment, which was her own. In about ten minutes Lucy came out sobbing. "Oh, Phyllis, Phyllis," she wept below her breath. Gertrude, paler than ever, rose without a word, and went into the sick-room. "Poor old Lucy, she looked as if she were going to cry. I asked her if she had any message for Frank," said Phyllis, as her sister sat down beside her, and adjusted the lamp. "You are over-exciting yourself. Lie still, Phyllis." "But, Gerty, I feel ever so much better to-night." Silence. Gertrude sewed, and the invalid lay with closed eyes, but the flutter of the long lashes told that she was not asleep. "Gerty!" In about half an hour the grey eyes had unclosed, and were fixed widely on her sister's face. "What is it?" "Gerty, am I really going to die?" "You are very ill," said Gertrude, in a low voice. "But to die--it seems so impossible, so difficult, somehow. Frank died; that was wonderful enough; but oneself!" "Oh, my child," broke from Gertrude's lips. "Don't be sorry. I have never been a nice person, but I don't funk somehow. I ought to, after being such a bad lot, but I don't. Gerty!" "What is it?" "Gerty, you have always been good to me; this last week as well. But that is the worst of you good people; you are hard as stones. You bring me jelly; you sit up all night with me--but you have never forgiven me. You know that is the truth." Gertrude knelt by the bedside, a great compunction in her heart; she put her hand on that of Phyllis, who went on-- "And there is something I should wish to tell you. I am glad you came and fetched me away. The very moment I saw your angry, white face, and your old clothes with the snow on, I was glad. It is funny, if one comes to think of it. I was frightened, but I was glad." Gertrude's head drooped lower and lower over the coverlet; her heart, which had been frozen within her, melted. In an agony of love, of remorse, she stretched out her arms, while her sobs came thick and fast, and gathered the wasted figure to her breast. "Oh, Phyllis, oh, my child; who am I to forgive you? Is it a question of forgiveness between us? Oh, Phyllis, my little Phyllis, have you forgotten how I love you?" [Illustration: Decoration] [Illustration: Decoration] CHAPTER XXI. THE LAST ACT. _Just as another woman sleeps._ D. G. ROSSETTI.