“Trust in me now, if you please, miss,” said Charley quietly. “I am listening to everything you say.”
“It’s very little at present, Charley. I shall tell your doctor to-night that I don’t think I am well and that you are going to nurse me.”
For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. “And in the morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the garden, if I should not be quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do you go, Charley, and say I am asleep—that I have rather tired myself, and am asleep. At all times keep the room as I have kept it, Charley, and let no one come.”
Charley promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. I saw the doctor that night and asked the favour of him that I wished to ask relative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet. I have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting into day, and of day melting into night again; but I was just able on the first morning to get to the window and speak to my darling.
On the second morning I heard her dear voice—Oh, how dear now!—outside; and I asked Charley, with some difficulty (speech being painful to me), to go and say I was asleep. I heard her answer softly, “Don’t disturb her, Charley, for the world!”
“How does my own Pride look, Charley?” I inquired.
“Disappointed, miss,” said Charley, peeping through the curtain.
“But I know she is very beautiful this morning.”
“She is indeed, miss,” answered Charley, peeping. “Still looking up at the window.”
With her blue clear eyes, God bless them, always loveliest when raised like that!