"He is sleeping," she said. "Leave him to me; if he sleeps, he may wake the better for it."
Husband and wife reluctantly left the room, Anstice to go to the little girls, Justin to pace up and down the terrace outside beneath his boy's bedroom. All that night they watched and waited, and then towards morning, the child's pulse seemed stronger and his temperature rose. When the doctor came, he heard the good news with a smile.
"If he has improved at all, there is hope."
And before he went, he laid his hand on Anstice's shoulder. "He has turned the corner. With careful nursing, I believe we shall pull him through."
It was indeed true. Ruffie's little feet had been very near the margin of the river, but no farther. He had been given back for a few more years to rejoice his father's heart. A few days later, when his recovery was a joyful fact, Anstice wandered out into the garden to get a little fresh air. She was too tired to walk much, for the strain of Ruffie's illness, on the top of the nursing of his sisters, had almost proved too much for her. She sat down on the lawn under one of the old trees. The beeches were turning colour, and the elms and oaks were already carpeting the green turf with their fallen leaves. It was a calm autumnal day. Anstice's heart was full of thanksgiving; she could think of nothing but the mercy and loving-kindness of God.
And then presently Justin joined her. He had come straight from the boy's room. But though his head was erect and steps light, there was a great gravity on his face. He sat down on the garden seat by the side of his wife. Then he bent his head and kissed her.
"You are worn out, sweetheart!" His tender, sympathetic tone sent the tears with a rush to Anstice's eyes.
"I am only so thankful, so thankful!" she said.
He was silent for a moment, then spoke:
"These past weeks have been hard on both of us. For myself I own, I've never been in such trouble before. I think I'd like you to know that when Ruffie was given back to us, I gave God my heart and life."