"Read this letter."
Elizabeth blinked at the gas-jet. "It's my eyes," she complained almost
fretfully. "Light the candle, will you, Joan? Then we can put the gas
out."
Joan did as she wished, and returning to the bed leant over the
foot-rail, watching Elizabeth as she read. Elizabeth had gone white to
the lips; she laid down the letter and they stared at each other in
silence.
At last Elizabeth spoke. "She's coming home soon," she said in a flat
voice.
"Yes; I must go and fetch her the day after to-morrow."
"She'll need--nursing--if she lives."
"Yes--if she lives----"
"It's February already, Joan."
"Yes, next month is March. We called it our March, didn't we,
Elizabeth?"
"There are places--sanatoriums, but they cost money."
"We haven't got the money, Elizabeth. And in any case, Mother's decided
that Milly can't be seriously ill."
"I have some money, as you know, Joan, but I was saving it for you;
still----" Her voice shook.
Joan sat down on the bed again and took Elizabeth's hand. "It's no
good," she said gently.
And then Elizabeth cried. She did it with disconcerting suddenness and
complete lack of restraint. It was terrible to Joan to see her thrown
right off her guard like this; to feel her shoulders shake with sobs
while the tears dripped through her fingers on to the bedspread.