CHAPTER V.
THE INVITATION.
HAT a pleasant sight it was to see Madge's face, when Raymond was able to sit up. It was still quiet and calm, but there was a deep gladness in it that was beautiful; and the thoughtful care for her brother, the way in which every wish or desire of his was forestalled, showed plainly that her love had rather been increased than diminished by that long nursing. She made allowance for all the fretfulness of convalescence, which is so prevalent after severe illness—especially in men or boys, who feel the depression of extreme weakness peculiarly trying—and was always patient and bright. One day Raymond, after watching her for some minutes gliding about the room and making things comfortable for him, said to her, "Madge, which is the best life, yours or mine?"
"Mine at present; and yours is going to be," she answered, with her own quiet smile.
"I've begun to doubt that. Do you know, I've nearly come to the conclusion that I would change with you, and that your unselfish life is more noble than all the fame and glory I could heap together."
Madge stopped in her work, and looking earnestly at her brother, replied,—
"If that fame and glory is the only object of your life, Raymond, it is not what I thought and hoped it was going to be."
"What do you mean?" he asked, half laughing at her gravity.