The words were a blur to her. She stared at them; but what she saw was
the gaze of the sick woman, upturned to her from the bed. The scrap of
paper hid it, and yet she saw. She must act quickly.

She gave a reassuring nod, turned the gas-jet low, and slid down into
bed with the paper clenched in her hand. But as her head touched the
pillow she heard a rustling noise, and craned up her neck again.
The patient had rolled over on her left side, facing her, fighting for
breath.

"Yes, yes," Tilda lied hardily. "To-morrow--Arthur--they shall send for
him to-morrow."

"Four," said the sick woman. The word was quite distinct. Another word
followed which Tilda could not catch.

"Four o'clock, or may be earlier," she promised.

"L--l--lozenges," the tongue babbled.

Tilda glanced towards the medicine table.

"Diamonds," said the voice with momentary firmness; "four
diamonds . . . on his coat . . . his father's . . . his . . . ."

"Four diamonds, yes?" the child repeated.

"Ned did them . . . he told me . . . told me . . . ." But here the voice
wavered and trailed off into babble, meaningless as a year-old infant's.
Tilda listened hard for a minute, two minutes, then dropped her head