As evening closed in, she brought her some tea. Caroline, opening her eyes from a moment's slumber, viewed her nurse with an unrecognizing glance.
"I smelt the honeysuckles in the glen this summer morning," she said, "as I stood at the counting-house window."
Strange words like these from pallid lips pierce a loving listener's heart more poignantly than steel. They sound romantic, perhaps, in books; in real life they are harrowing.
"My darling, do you know me?" said Mrs. Pryor.
"I went in to call Robert to breakfast. I have been with him in the garden. He asked me to go. A heavy dew has refreshed the flowers. The peaches are ripening."
"My darling! my darling!" again and again repeated the nurse.
"I thought it was daylight—long after sunrise. It looks dark. Is the moon now set?"
That moon, lately risen, was gazing full and mild upon her. Floating in deep blue space, it watched her unclouded.
"Then it is not morning? I am not at the cottage? Who is this? I see a shape at my bedside."
"It is myself—it is your friend—your nurse—your—— Lean your head on my shoulder. Collect yourself." In a lower tone—"O God, take pity! Give her life, and me strength! Send me courage! Teach me words!"