And with that he did faint again. And this time when he recovered he was in a fever. His staying-power was gone.
She put him to bed and nursed him. She sat day and night in his room, doing by instinct what was right and needful. At first he lay either unconscious or delirious. She listened to his incoherent speech in a sort of agony, as though it might contain some clue to a riddle; and sat with her passionate eyes brooding on his countenance, as though in that too might lie the answer. But if there was one, neither his words nor his face revealed it. "When he wakes," she whispered to herself, "he'll tell me. How can there be barriers between us any more?"
After three days he came to himself. She was sitting by the window preparing sheep's-wool for her spindle. She bent over her task, using the last of the light, which fell upon her head. She did not know that he was conscious, or had been watching her, until he spoke.
"Your hair used to be quite brown, didn't it?" he said. "Nut-brown."
She started and turned to him, and a faint flush stained her cheeks.
"Ah, you're not pleased," said Peter with a slight grin. "None of us like getting old, do we?"
Helen put by the question. "You're yourself again."
"Doing my best," said he. "How long is it?"
"Three days."
"As much as that? I could have sworn it was only yesterday. Well, time passes."