"You
do not think her dead?"
No, Guy did not, and stooping he asked if he should not remove from
the dainty little feet resting on the stove hearth the overshoes, so
full of melting snow. Maddy cared little for her shoes, or herself
just then. She hardly knew that Guy was taking them off, much less
that, as he bent beside her, her hand lay lightly upon his shoulder as
she continued her questionings.
"She is not dead, you say; but do you think-does any-body think she'll
die? Your telegram said 'dying.'"
Maddy was not to be deceived, and thinking it best to be frank with
her, Guy told her that the physician, whom he had taken pains to see
on his way to the depot, had said there was no hope. Old age and an
impaired constitution precluded the possibility of recovery, but he
trusted she might live till the young lady came.
"She must--she will! Oh, grandma, why did I ever leave her?" and
burying her face in her hands. Maddy cried passionately, while the
last three years of her Life passed in rapid review before her
mind--years which she had spent in luxurious ease, leaving her
grandmother to toil in the humble cottage, and die at the last, it
might be, without one parting word for her.
The feeling that perhaps she had been guilty of neglect, was the
bitterest of all, and Maddy wept on, unmindful of Guy's attempts to
soothe and quiet her.
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