'He does so more than at first,' said Ethel.
'Much more. I have heard things from him to-night that are a revelation to me. Well, he has come through, and I believe he is recovering it; but the three threads of our being have all had a terrible wrench, and if body and mind come out unscathed, it is the soundness of the spirit that has brought them through.'
A sleepless night and morning of violent pain ensued; but, at least thus much had been gained—that there was no refusal of sympathy, but a grateful acceptance of kindness, so that it almost seemed a recurrence to the Coombe days; and as the pain lessened, the enjoyment of Ethel's attendance seemed to grow upon Leonard in the gentle languor of relief; and when, as she was going out for the afternoon, she came back to see if he was comfortable in his easy-chair by the drawing-room fire, and put a screen before his face, he looked up and thanked her with a smile—the first she had seen.
When she returned, the winter twilight had closed in, and he was leaning back in the same attitude, but started up, so that she asked if he had been asleep.
'I don't know—I have seen her again.'
'Seen whom?'
'Minna, my dear little Minna!'
'Dreamt of her?'
'I cannot tell,' he said; 'I only know she was there; and then rising and standing beside Ethel, he continued—'Miss May, you remember the night of her death?'
'Easter Eve?'