"Oh, yes; I don't mind them."
She pulled the flowers toward her, and began playing with them after Jessie's childish fashion. It gave me a strange feeling to see those blossoms in her hand; when I remembered whose gift they had been, I felt as if my friend held Cleopatra's venomous asp in every flower that she touched.
"Will you read to me a while?" she asked, at length. "There is a new poem on the table; take that."
Of course, I complied at once, and read to her for some time; then I saw the flowers drop from her hand—her head sank back among the pillows, and soon her regular breathing proved that she was sleeping quietly.
I laid down the volume, and looked at her with pain and solicitude. She was so helpless! The least shock might terminate that frail existence; and I had grown so nervous that I was always expecting some trouble to force itself into that room, which, until lately, had been securely guarded by a husband's love.
She moved restlessly in her sleep; broken words fell from her lips; very soon they framed themselves into complete sentences. She had sunk into one of those singular somnambulistic slumbers which formed such a strange feature of her illness.
"I am tired," she said; "I have walked so fast! How pretty the summer-house looks! It is so long since I have been here! There is Mr. Lee—"
She paused and breathed rapidly.
"Why, Mrs. Dennison is with him! She said she was going to Jessie's room! How earnestly she talks to him! She lays her hand on his arm!"
She paused again, with a sort of cry.