"Told me yerself. I 'eard you, night before last, when you was talkin'
wild. . . . If you try to do me any 'arm, I'll call the Sister."

"Holmness?"

"_You_ said it. Strike me dead if you didn'!" Tilda fetched a grip on
herself; but the hand, its fingers closing on air, drew back and
dropped, as though cut off from the galvanising current. She had even
presence of mind to note that the other hand--the hand on which the body
propped itself, still half-erect, wore a plain ring of gold.
"You talked a lot about 'Olmness--and Arthur. 'Oo's Arthur?"

But the patient had fallen back, and lay breathing hard. When she spoke
again all the vibration had gone out of her voice.

"Tell them . . . Arthur . . . fetch Arthur . . . ." The words
tailed off into a whisper. Still the lips moved as though speech
fluttered upon them; but no speech came.

"You just tell me where he is, and maybe we'll fetch 'im," said Tilda
encouragingly.

The eyes, which had been fixed on the child's, and with just that look
you may note in a dog's eyes when he waits for his master's word,
wandered to the table by the bedside, and grew troubled, distressful.

"Which of 'em?" asked Tilda, touching the medicine bottles and glasses
there one by one.

But the patient seemed to shake her head, though with a motion scarcely