"She won't tell me--she says she _can't_. She tries to bring it out, but
it sticks in her throat."
"Nonsense. She did nothing," I said.
"What _could_ she do?" Helen asked, gazing at me.
"She's ill, she's in a fever, her mind's wandering."
"So I say to her father."
"And what does _she_ say to him?"
"Nothing--she won't speak to him. He's with her now, but she only lies
there letting him hold her hand, with her face turned away from him and
her eyes closed."
"You must send for the doctor immediately."
"I've already sent for him."
"Should you like me to sit up with her?"
"Oh, I'll do that!" Helen said. Then she asked: "But if you were there
the other day, what did you see?"
"Nothing whatever," I resolutely answered.
"_Really_ nothing?"
"Really, my dear child."
"But was there nobody there who could have made up to her?"