"But he isn't. He breathes still."
Yes, there was just a feeble pulsation, so feeble that it was hardly discernible, but it brought new hope to Madge's heart. She moistened his lips with a stimulant, then knelt beside him, with her eyes fixed upon him in intense anxiety. The moments seemed like hours. But at last there came a little short sigh, and then the breathing became more soft and regular. The lines of the face were relaxed, and Raymond was sleeping peacefully.
"If he sleep, he will do well," were words spoken long ago. And so it was.
When the doctor came again, he pronounced his patient better, and told Madge that he might recover.
That night, about twelve o'clock, as she was sitting beside the bed, keeping watch, Madge heard a low, weak voice saying her name. She bent down her head, and Raymond whispered, "Madge, I have had such a happy, beautiful dream, about my painting. Ask God that I may live."
"Perhaps your dream will come true, darling, for the picture is sold," she answered gladly. Then she feared that she had said what was unwise, and that she had excited him. But she was satisfied when she saw the quiet smile of satisfaction that stole over his features.
"Now rest, dear Raymond," she added, as she kissed him, "you will yet live to be my glory."
