“I conna stay i' Riggan; I mun go away.”
Toward morning Derrick became quieter. He muttered less and less until his voice died away altogether, and he sank into a profound slumber. Grace, coming in and finding him sleeping, turned to Joan with a look of intense relief.
“The worst is over,” he said; “now we may hope for the best.”
“Ay,” Joan answered, quietly, “th' worst is ower—fur him.”
At last darkness gave way to a faint gray light, and then the gray sky showed long slender streaks of wintry red, gradually widening and deepening until all the east seemed flushed.
“It's mornin',” said Joan, turning from the window to the bed. “I mun gi' him th' drops again.”
She was standing near the pillow when the first flood of the sunlight poured in at the window. At this moment Derrick awoke from his sleep to a full recognition of all around him. But the strength of his delirium had died out; his prostration was so utter, that for the moment he had no power to speak and could only look up at the pale face hopelessly. It seemed as if the golden glow of the morning light transfigured it.
“He's awake,” Joan said, moving away and speaking to those on the other side of the room. “Will one on yo' pour out th' medicine? My hand's noan steady.”
Grace went to the bedside hurriedly.
“Derrick,” he said, bending down, “do you know me?”