"Dick!" she cried.
"It is nothing, dear, nothing." His eyes wandered around the room. "You are not living here alone?"
"No, Dick. My husband is in that room. Come and see him. Tread softly, softly!"
She opened the door, and he followed her into the room, and there, in bed, lay the son of Samuel Boyd, the man lying dead in his house in Catchpole Square.
"The doctor has given him a sleeping draught," said Florence, in a low tone. "He has been very ill, and no one to nurse him but I." With tender care she smoothed the pillow, and drew the counterpane over his shoulders, then stooped and kissed him. When she raised her face it was illumined. Love shone there, and a divine pity. There are memories which dwell in the mind till the hour of death, and this revelation of devoted love would dwell in Dick's mind till his life was ended.
"Is he changed much?" she asked.
"He is worn and thin," Dick replied. "Has he been ill long?"
"A good many days, but thank God! the doctor says he will get well. If he sleeps till eight or nine o'clock it will help his recovery greatly."
They re-entered the sitting room. Dick took a chair with its back to the light, and each looked at the other in silence awhile. Florence was the first to speak.
"Where shall I commence, Dick?"