"And that prayer shall ever be offered for you, Charles," said Mrs. Weston; "I owe you a debt of gratitude which can never be repaid. I shudder to think of what would have happened, had it not been for your kind, noble, manly friendship. Poor George would have suffered in this lonely place, away from all who loved him, and without proper care, perhaps have died—died afoot."
"You do not know how thankful I feel, Mrs. Weston, that our efforts have not been in vain. Pray write to me every day, to say how he is going on—if it is only just one line; and should there be any change for the—for the better, do let me know at once, that I may come down again, if only for a day, just to congratulate him."
"And if there is another change—a change for the worse?" asked Mrs. Weston, tearfully.
"Write, telegraph—pray let me know somehow," answered Hardy. "I could not bear to part with him without telling and showing him there was one of his old friends who loved him to the last. Good-bye, dear Mrs. Weston; do not over-tax your strength, and keep up a good heart; depend upon it, there are yet happy days for you and for George."
Mrs. Weston sadly missed her young friend after his departure. His hopeful spirits had helped to buoy up her expectations and assuage the sorrows of the present. It seemed as if the sun had hidden itself and the stars had refused their light during those long days when the mother sat watching at the bedside of her son. Mr. Brunton tried in every way to relieve her, but his own heart was heavy, and the two felt more at home in talking dolefully over the bad symptoms of the patient than in looking forward to the future.
But a day came when the strength of the fever abated, and reason returned to her long vacant throne.
It was toward evening: Mrs. Weston was sitting beside the bed, busily stitching away at her work, and Mr. Brunton was resting his head upon his hands as he turned over the pages of a book which he was trying to deceive himself into the belief he was reading, when a deep sigh caused them both to suspend their occupation.
George raised himself up in bed, and gazed round the room. The furniture screened the two watchers, and he fancied himself alone. He raised a pillow at his back, and reclining upon it in the placid calm of exhaustion, with his face turned toward the open window, watched the clouds as they crossed the blue expanse, and indulged in a half conscious reverie. Where had he been? Where was he? Had he passed the dark valley of the shadow of death, and were there angel forms in those snow-white clouds beckoning him away? What was that confused sound which rang in his ears? Was it the murmuring of the dark stream as it washed upon the untrodden shore?
No: there was the little room where he had taken his lodgings; there was the green paper on the wall with the large grape clusters; there was the sound of human voices in the street And the consciousness that he was alive, restored, flashed upon him with something of the bewildering astonishment and joy which Lazarus must have felt when he heard the words, "Come forth."
Too weak to rise, he was not too weak to pray. Clasping his hands together, and gazing up into the clear blue sky, from whence all clouds were now dispersing, he poured out his overflowing heart in thanksgiving.