Sometimes she
dozed in a chair by the bed, but she never lay down. Her
endurance was something wonderful, her patience and tenderness
almost superhuman. To and fro she went, in noiseless ministry,
as the long, dreadful days wore away, with a quiet smile on her
lips, and in her dark, sorrowful eyes the rapt look of a pictured
saint in some dim cathedral niche. For her there was no world
outside the bare room where lay the repulsive object she loved.
One day the doctor looked very grave. He had grown well-hardened
to pitiful scenes in his life-time; but he shrunk from telling
Eunice that her brother could not live. He had never seen such
devotion as hers. It seemed brutal to tell her that it had been
in vain.
But Eunice had seen it for herself. She took it very calmly, the
doctor thought. And she had her reward at last--such as it was.
She thought it amply sufficient.
One night Christopher Holland opened his swollen eyes as she bent
over him. They were alone in the old house. It was raining
outside, and the drops rattled noisily on the panes.
Christopher smiled at his sister with parched lips, and put out a
feeble hand toward her.
"Eunice," he said faintly, "you've been the best sister ever a
man had. I haven't treated you right; but you've stood by me to
the last. Tell Victoria--tell her--to be good to you--"
His voice died away into an inarticulate murmur.
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