She waited
for her aunt's reply. No sound came from the bed. Had her aunt
heard? Perhaps she slept. Maggie waited. Then timidly, and softly
she said:
"Aunt Anne . . . Aunt Anne . . ."
No reply. Then again in a whisper:
"Aunt Anne . . . Aunt Anne . . ."
Supposing Aunt Anne . . . Maggie trembled, then, commanding herself
to be calm, she bent towards the bed.
"Aunt Anne, are you asleep?"
Suddenly Aunt Anne's face was there, the eyes closed, the mouth, the
cheeks pale yellow in the faint reflection from the lamp. There was
no stir, no breath.
"Aunt Anne, Aunt Anne," Maggie whispered in terror now. Then she saw
that her aunt was sleeping; very, very faintly the sheets rose and
fell and the fingers of the hand on the coverlet trembled a little
as though they were struggling to wake.
Then Aunt Anne had heard nothing after all. But it might be that she
was pretending, just to see what Maggie would say.
"Aunt Anne," whispered Maggie once more and for the last time. Then
she sat back on her seat again, her hands folded, staring straight
in front of her. After that she did not know for how long she sat
there in a state somewhere between dream and reality.
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