“Oh, don’t! don’t!” she cried, in sharp anguish. “No; let me have him all to myself. I love him. No one else does. Oh, let her alone! She has her husband and her children. She was glad when my Bertie was better, that she might go to them. Why should she come back now? What is he to her? the last, the farthest off, less dear than the baby, not half so much to her as her house and her husband, and all the new things she cares for. But he is everything to me, all I have, and all I want. Oh, let us alone! let us alone!”
“Dear young lady,” said the compassionate doctor, “your grief is too much for you; you don’t know what you say.”
“Oh, I know! I know!” cried Reine. “She was glad he was better, that she might go; that was all she thought of. Don’t send for her; I could not bear to see her. She will say she knew it all the time, and blame you for letting her go--though you know she longed to go. Oh, let me have him to myself! I care for nothing else--nothing--now--nothing in the world!”
“You must not say so; you will kill yourself,” said the doctor.
“Oh, I wish, I wish I could; that would be the best. If _you_ would only kill me with Bertie! but you have not the courage--you dare not. Then, doctor, leave us together--leave us alone, brother and sister. I have no one but him, and he has no one but me. Mamma is married; she has others to think of; leave my Bertie to me. I know how to nurse him, doctor,” said Reine, clasping her hands. “I have always done it, since I was _so_ high; he is used to me, and he likes me best. Oh, let me have him all to myself!”