White, fragile, worn almost to a shadow, helpless as a child, she lay there now with reason in full sway. Dead to her old life, to her friends, her hopes, her plans—dead to her lover and her love—she was painfully beginning a new life, in which none of these had any part—a new life into which she felt that hope, love, or happiness could never come.
A week later, and Hyacinth Vaughan, looking like a frail shadow of her former self, sat, propped up by pillows, in a large easy-chair that had been placed for her near the window; her nerveless hands were clasped, her large eyes, so sad and dreamy, lingered on the clouds that drifted rapidly over the sky.
She was alone and deeply engrossed in thought; the time had come when she must speak to these people who had been so kind to her—when she must tell something of herself. They had been so kind to her, so attentive, so considerate—they had not even asked her name. Mrs. Chalmers always called her "child." Her son had a variety of names for her, the principal of which was Queen Mab. Such kindness could spring only from noble and generous hearts. Both mother and son had refrained from asking her any questions. Said Dr. Chalmers to his mother:
"When she knows us, and feels that she can trust us she will speak."
They had both divined that there had been some terrible sorrow in the girl's life—some sorrow that had struck her down and brought her to the brink of the grave. They knew, too, that she must be a lady of good birth and refinement. But never by word or deed did they distress her by the least symptom of curiosity. They had gone still further—when she attempted to say anything, Mrs. Chalmers had laid kindly fingers on her trembling lips, and said:
"Hush! Wait till you are stronger and better, my dear and then you shall talk."
But now the time had come when she knew that she must speak to them—must thank them for such kindness as the world rarely shows—must tell them how she was dead, but had risen to this new, fresh life in which the past was to have neither share nor place. The task was terrible to her, but she must undergo it. It seemed a direct answer to her thoughts when the door opened, and Dr. Chalmers came in with his mother. The doctor carried with him a bunch of purple grapes, which he laid before her.
"How kind you are to me!" she said, with trembling lips. "I have been thinking all the morning. How can I thank you? How can I ever repay you?"
"Doctors never expect thanks," said Dr. Chalmers; "and we are repaid by your recovery."
But the beautiful eyes were filled with tears. She took the old lady's hand and raised it to her lips. The doctor held up his finger in warning, but Hyacinth said: