The laugh aroused the mother, trained by love to awaken at the least sound. She sprang to her feet and hastened to the bedside. When she saw the change for the better in her child, the smile on the little face, thankfulness overwhelmed her.
Never had waking moments been more sweet. It was less like waking than like a dream itself. She hugged Gracie to her bosom; just escaped crying over her.
Masters smilingly humoured the child—a little tyranny is a welcome sign in a patient; said, suiting the action to the word:
"Well, I'll use the coal scoop, as you object so to my hands."
"Look at your fingers! Isn't he a dirty boy, mamma? I mustn't let him touch my clean nightgown, must I?"
It was a challenge! Masters saw through the ruse. Her desire was that he should make pretence he wanted to catch hold of her. Then she would struggle to escape him. It was a game she was very fond of—he was to catch her after a long while—and then the romp would begin all over again. Fearing to excite her, he took no notice of the thrown-down glove; merely remarked:
"Well, you look all the better for your sleep." Added, with a smile: "Both of you, I mean."
The mother's heart was too full to speak. Her child was hers once more. Had come back to her from out the Valley of the Shadow of Death. After a long pause she managed to look up at him, tears bedewing her eyes, and inquire:
"And you?"
"Don't worry about me! I am as right as right can be. Just let me go to your bath-room, will you? I shall emerge from it as fresh as the proverbial lark."