“Is she here, sir?—can I see her?” cried Conway, eagerly.
“Yes. She has come over to say good-bye; for, I regret to say, she too is about to leave us to join her brother at Calcutta.”
A sickly paleness spread itself over Conway's cheeks, and he muttered, “I must see her—I must speak with her at once.”
“So you shall, my poor fellow,” said the other, affectionately; “and I know of no such recompense for wounds and suffering as to see her gentle smile and hear her soft voice. She shall come to you immediately.”
Conway covered his face with his hand, to conceal the emotion that stirred him, and heard no more. Nor was he conscious that, one by one, the persons around him slipped noiselessly from the room, while into the seat beside his bed glided a young girl's figure, dressed in deep black, and veiled.
“Such a fate!” muttered he, half aloud. “All this, that they call my good fortune, comes exactly when I do not care for it.”
“And why so?” asked a low, soft voice, almost in his very ear.
“Is this, indeed, you?” cried he, eagerly. “Was it your hand I felt on my temples as I lay wounded outside the trenches? Was it your voice that cheered me as they carried me to the rear?”
She slightly bent her head in assent, and murmured, “Your old comrade's sister could not do less.”
“And now you are about to leave me,” said he, with an overwhelming sorrow in the tone.