Harold seemed to hear it. He moved a little, and said, faintly. “Who is there?”
“It is I.”
“Olive—little Olive.” His white cheek flushed, and he held out his hand.
She, remembering his mother's caution, only whispered, “I am so glad—so glad!”
“It is a long time since I saw you,” he said brokenly. “Stand so that I can look at you, Olive!” She obeyed. He looked long and wistfully at her face. “You have been weeping, I see. Wherefore?”
“Because I am so happy to think you are better.”
“Is that true? Do you think so much of me?” And a pale but most joyful smile broke over his face; though, leaving it, the features trembled with emotion. Olive was alarmed.
“You must not talk now—not one word. Remember how very ill you have been. I will sit by you here. Oh, what can I ever do or say in gratitude for all you have done for me?”
“Gratitude!” Harold echoed the word, as if with pain, and then lay still, looking up at her no more. Gradually there came a change over his countenance, as if some bitter thought were slowly softening into calmness. “Olive,” he said, “you speak of gratitude, then what must be mine to you? In those long hours when I lay conscious, but silent, knowing that there might be but a breath between me and eternity, how should I have felt had I not learnt from you that holy faith which conquers death?”
“Thank God! thank God! But you are weak, and must not speak.”