Mrs. Rawlinson had sent Amy out into the garden for a breath of fresh air, and the girl was seated under the shade of the great stone lantern by the side of the miniature lake, watching the gold fish darting in and out among the rocks, and pondering sadly over the distress and the gnawing anxiety of the past weeks. Great tears were flowing down her cheeks, which were pale and drawn. She fixed her eyes on Fujiyama, hazy and indistinct in the afternoon sun, and she wondered mournfully whether poor Pearl would ever gaze at her beloved mountain again. There was one little fleecy cloud hovering over the summit. It was snowy white, with a silver edge, and Amy found herself dreamily comparing this mystical, almost transparent cloud to Pearl's pure, unsullied soul. Her eyelids drooped. She wondered and wept no more, for Amy slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.
It was fully an hour later when she opened her eyes to find Ralph Nicholson standing by her side.
"Poor little thing," he said sorrowfully, as she started up from her chair, "how sad, how weary you look. Go to sleep again. I will leave you. But first tell me, how is she to-day?"
Amy brushed away the tears that were still wet on her eyelids.
"The doctors see a slight improvement," she replied. "The fever is, they say, a shade lower. But she seems no better to auntie and myself. Oh! Sir Ralph, I am sure she will die. She cannot resist. It has been going on so long now. She is still delirious at times, and I know the fever is gradually but surely wearing her away."
Ralph looked at the sweet face, on which all the joy and sparkle had died out, and on which grief for the time being had made such havoc. And as he looked, he knew that he had never admired, that he had never loved Amy Mendovy as he admired and loved her to-day in this soft and saddened mood.
He sat down on the grass beside her chair and took her hand between his own.
Amy did not withdraw it.
"Amy, dear," he said very quietly, "I cannot tell you how unhappy I am. It is awful to me to see your grief, for, as you know--you know it well Amy, though you never would listen to me--I love you, and have loved you for long, darling. May I share your trouble with you, Amy? May I help you to bear it a little? Will you be kind to me, and after my long waiting give me the right to do this?"
Amy never quite knew how it occurred, but shortly after this request she found her head leaning on Ralph's shoulder, while that individual was busily employed in kissing away the tears--tears whether now of joy or of sorrow,--it was somewhat difficult to tell.