Neither of the little girls answered, but passed gently into the ward.
Mrs. Fuller was by a cot near the door, holding her water-pitcher to the lips of a patient; nothing could appear more kind than her demeanor. "Ah, here you are," she said, nodding to the children, "she is asleep yet! Don't make any more noise than you can help."
Isabel went up to her mother's cot, and kneeling by it looked earnestly upon the pale and languid features.
"Is she better?—see how white she is, how her eyes are sunken. She hardly breathes at all. Oh, Mary, is she better?"
"Yes, the Doctor says so—and she does not mutter to herself or seem so restless as she did. I think, Isabel that she is better!"
The tears gushed into Isabel's eyes. She bent down and softly kissed the pale hand of her mother. Mrs. Chester started and opened her eyes; they fell upon her child, and instantly that full gaze was blended with tears.
"Isabel, my child." The words were very, very faint, but oh, how sweetly they fell upon those young hearts.
"She knows me—oh, Mary, she knows me!" cried the child, and her beautiful face grew radiant amid the tears that covered it, like a flower struck with sunshine when the dew is heaviest on its petals. "Mamma, oh, my own mamma, this is Mary, our Mary Fuller!"
The sick woman turned her eyes toward her little nurse. She tried to lift her hand, but it only shook on the checked quilt.
"Mary, my good, good Mary!"