“Yes, thank Heaven, you are better now, sweet friend.”
“And you are sure you have not been neglected?”
“Quite sure, dear. You know that Elfie has been ‘acting’ mistress during your illness.”
“Yes, but I know that dear Elfie has been with me all the time in this room. Whenever I have had a glimpse of consciousness I have seen her by my bed. Dear Elfie!” continued Erminie, turning to her nurse—“dear, dear Elfie, how shall I ever be grateful enough to you?”
“There shall be no such word as ‘grateful’ between you and me, Erminie. Or, if there must be, it is I who must be grateful—first to the Lord for giving me so dear a friend and continuing her to me; and next to you for your love since childhood, and your protection since the war.”
“Don’t say that, Elfie,” said Erminie.
“Oh, my darling, I am so rejoiced that you are better!” exclaimed Elfie.
“So am I,” said Erminie, frankly. “I have something to live for now. And I had rather live, if it please the Lord. My father is living.”
As Erminie spoke these last four inexplicable words, Elfie started violently, and even Britomarte changed countenance. They were both alarmed. They both thought that Erminie had been talking too much and had become dangerously excited, and that another paroxysm of fever and delirium was imminent.
But this was not so. With Erminie convalescence had set in strongly and decidedly, supported by her young and vigorous constitution. And when the two girls looked again at Erminie they were reassured by her perfect ease and quietness.