He fell asleep thus one morning, and awakened suddenly to a consciousness of some new presence in the room. Seth no longer sat in the chair near his pillow, but stood a little apart; and surely he would have been no lover if the feeble blood had not leaped in his veins at the sight of the face bending over him—the innocent, fair young face which had so haunted his pained and troubled dreams. “Cathie!” he cried out aloud.
The-girl fell upon her knees and caught his extended hand with a passionate little gesture of love and pity. “I did not know,” she poured forth in hurried, broken tones. “I have been away ever since the sickness broke out at home. They sent me away, and I only heard yesterday—Father, tell him, for I cannot.”
He scarcely heard the more definite explanation, he was at once so happy and so fearful.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “I can scarcely bear to think of what may come of this; and yet how blessed it is to have you near me again! The danger for me is all over: even your dear self could not have cared for me more faithfully than I have been cared for. Raynor there has saved my life.”
But Cathie could only answer with a piteous, remorseful jealousy: “Why was it not I who saved it? why was it not I?”
And the place where Seth had stood waiting was vacant, for he had left it at the sound of Langley's first joyous cry. When he returned an hour or so later, the more restful look Langley had fancied he had seen on his face of late had faded out: the old unawakened heaviness had returned. He was nervous and ill at ease, shrinking and conscious.
“I've comn to say good-neet to yo',” he said hesitatingly to the invalid. “Th' young lady says as she an' her feyther will tak' my place a bit. I'll coom i' th' mornin'.”
“You want rest,” said Langley; “you are tired, poor fellow!”
“Ay,” quietly, “I'm tired; an' th' worst is over, yo' see, an' she's here,” with a patient smile. “Yo' wunnot need me, and theer's them as does.”
From that hour his work at this one place seemed done. For several days he made his appearance regularly to see if he was needed, and then his visits gradually ended. He had found a fresh field of labor among the sufferers in the settlement itself. He was as faithful to them as he had been to his first charge. The same unflagging patience showed itself, the same silent constancy and self-sacrifice. Scarcely a man or woman had not some cause to remember him with gratitude, and there was not one of those who had jested at and neglected him but thought of their jests and neglect with secret shame.