And now, when the necessity for resistance was gone, the reaction of all this wild excitement swept over and prostrated her. Like a plant that keeps green so long as the frost is in its leaves, but withers and droops with the first glow of sunshine, her strength gave way, and there was a time when her very life seemed in jeopardy.
Thus weak and feeble, poor Myra lay upon her couch in the quiet gloom of her sick-chamber, and shrinking from the slightest sound, with that sensitive dread which was itself a pain, she heard a noise upon the stairs. It seemed like the hesitating tread of a man, blended with the eager and suppressed remonstrance of some person who desired to check his progress. Myra began to tremble, for even this was enough to shake every nerve of her slight frame. She lifted her pale hand, put back the tresses from her temple, and made a faint effort to lift her head from the pillow, but in vain.
“My child—my child refuse to see her father? I will not believe it!”
“Father! father!” broke from the lips of that pale girl, and she sank on her pillow gasping for breath.
All was hushed then, the door opened softly, and through the gloom which hung around her couch, Myra saw the stately form of the old man who had so long been her father. His face was pale, and tears stood upon his cheek, as he bent down and kissed her forehead. Myra smiled, and drawing a deep breath closed her eyes, and then opened them with a look of touching love.
“Father!”
“My child!”
The old man sat down with her hand in his, and began smoothing the slender fingers with his other palm, as he had done so often in her childhood. This little act brought a world of pleasant old memories back to Myra’s heart, one after another, like drops of cool dew upon a half-blighted flower. She turned gently, and placed her other hand in the old man’s palm.
He bent down and kissed the two little hands he clasped in his.
“And mamma!” whispered Myra.