Partings

It was six days later when Margot opened her eyes, and found herself
lying on the little white bed in the bedroom of the Nag's Head, with
some one by the window whose profile as outlined against the light
seemed strangely and sweetly familiar. She stared dumbly, with a
confused wonder in her brain. Edith? It could not possibly be Edith!
What should bring Edith up to Glenaire in this sudden and unexpected
fashion? And why was she herself so weak and languid that to speak and
ask the question seemed an almost impossible exertion?

What had happened? Was she only dreaming that her head ached, and her
hands seemed too heavy to move, and that Edith sat by the window near a
table covered with medicine bottles and glasses? Margot blinked her
eyes, and stared curiously around. No! it was no dream; she was
certainly awake, and through the dull torpor of her brain a remembrance
began slowly to work. Something had happened! She had been tired and
cold; oh, cold, cold, cold; so cold that it had seemed impossible to
live. She had wandered on and on, through an eternity of darkness,
which had ended in the blackness of night. Her head throbbed with the
effort of thinking; she shut her eyes and lay quietly, waiting upon
remembrance.

Suddenly it came. A faint flush of colour showed itself in the white
cheek, and a tingle of warmth ran through the veins. She remembered now
upon whose arm she had hung, whose voice it was which had cheered her
onward; in trembling, incredulous fashion she remembered what that voice
had said!