When, as she softly opened the door of Margaret's room, the little child saw her father sitting dressed on a chair by the bedside, and her mother, so white and silent, in the bed, she stopped suddenly, trembling from head to foot. Laura had heard of death, though she had never seen it, and this solemn hush, this silent watching, struck like a chill upon her heart; she turned very pale, and seemed half afraid to cross the room, but her father called her: "Mamma is asleep, darling; come here and see her." He took her up and laid her down on the bed beside Margaret, telling her to be very still. Laura scarcely required the warning. She crept close to her mother. The strange child could not have spoken at that moment, she was so absolutely content. And Maurice had to turn away from her searching gaze; he would not have his child see that tears were gathering in his eyes at the sight of them together—the mother and child united one to the other, given back to his arms.
But still that sleep went on, and all but Maurice grew uneasy. The doctor came in at a tolerably early hour, but went away again after giving utterance to a few commonplaces. It was evident that he was puzzled. He asked repeatedly whether any narcotic had been given to her, and when he was answered in the negative shook his head ominously. She had better, he said, be left to herself; it might possibly be dangerous to arouse her. Nature in some cases was the best guide; he would call again.
The hours of the day passed by—morning, noon, evening, and still Maurice watched, and still he hoped, while still there was no cessation of that death-like trance. Evening passed into night, and all but Maurice gave up hope. They were allowed to come into the room and share the watch, for there was not one in the little house who did not enter deeply into the anxiety. The night deepened, and still no sign of life from the sleeper. Adèle's cheeks became pale and her eyes red with frequent weeping; this seemed so desolate an ending to their hopes and anxieties. On the child's young face the shadow deepened. She had found her mother, but that mother was deaf to her little one's voice, unconscious even of her presence; the old nurse's gestures grew more and more mysterious, only Maurice retained his quiet confidence.
The hours of the night passed by; none of them would go to bed. If those eyes were ever again to open, each one wished to be the first to hear the joyful news. The night waned, and even Maurice grew restless. His face resumed the old haggard look; oftener and oftener he applied to her lips the testing mirror, which still at each trial gave the answering dimness. The night passed into morning, the night-lamp showed a yellow flame, the white dawn began to struggle with the darkness; only Laura and her father were in the room. The child was watching her mother's face, Maurice had turned away to draw up the blind; perhaps the breaking of the morning-light might arouse the sleeper; they were afraid as yet to use stronger means. Suddenly the child gave a cry. He looked hastily at the bed; Margaret was in the same position. There was the same death-like immobility of face, the same rigidity of attitude.
But Laura's eyes were rapt and eager. "Mamma moved, she will soon awake," she cried, and before her father could stop her she had danced out of the room to proclaim the joyful news.
Adèle was dozing on the parlor sofa, Arthur was pacing the room restlessly. He saw the light in the little one's eyes and stopped. Laura to Arthur was a kind of prophet, a superior being.
"Mamma will soon awake," she said, and passed on to tell the old nurse, who was in the kitchen preparing restoratives of various kinds, for she had made up her mind that some means would have to be used to break this death-like sleep.
Adèle had heard the child's voice. She started from the sofa. "Let us go to her," she cried, and Arthur and she went into the room together.
They were joined after a few moments by the child, the nurse, the landlady, all eager to find the happy news confirmed.
The child was right. Margaret was certainly waking. The death-like stillness had gone from her face, her hands moved, she sighed now and then.