Soon he went back to the sitting-room at the far end of the house, where he had gone first with the doctor, and there on a table was lying the manuscript she had finished, which she wished him to read. All evening and deep into the night he read. It was all Edith: she herself, she shining above him.
The doctor came, but went again immediately; she was still sleeping, and soon after the night nurse had come on duty, Hugh went to bed himself, for she still slept. There through the calm starlit hours he lay, dozing a little from time to time, but for the most part lying with open eyes, looking out into the night, not restless, but very quiet. His room was on the other side of the house, and it did not seem very long to him before a little change came over the darkness. High on the mountains to the west came a little flush of colour, the tops grew rosy. Down here in the valley it was still dark, but in the heavens dawn had come, and had touched the topmost snows.
Then, before his mind told him why he had done so, he got out of bed. Next moment he heard a soft step outside. A tap at the door. He felt he had been waiting for this.
He was at the door in a moment in his dressing gown.
“She has just woke,” said the nurse, “and she wants to see you. I have rung up Dr. Harris. He ought to come at once!”
A couple of candles were burning on the table in her room, shielded from the bed. But dawn was coming quickly, there was scarce need for them.
Her face was turned toward the door, and as he entered she smiled at him. A little rosy light was beginning to steal in through the uncurtained windows, and her eyes shone with it.
“Oh, Hughie,” she whispered. “I knew you had come. Thank God.”
He knelt down by the bed, taking her hand in his, kissing it, kissing it.
“Meine Seele,” he said, “meine Seele!”