"Do you feel better?" he asked.
"A little," she responded, feebly. "How glad it makes me feel to think you have come."
"Perhaps it would be better for me not to come while you are so low," he said.
"I feel better every time you come," she answered.
She involuntarily threw her hand over the side of the bed. He took it up, and held it; and then touched his lips to her small fingers—fingers so small and delicate and white now that they were like chiseled marble, pliable in his. She did not resist, through inability mostly to draw it away, had she been so disposed. She made no pretense to conceal her fondness for him, nor did she attempt to talk with any design to hurry him away, when he suggested that she would better rest in absolute quiet. John saw all this. But he believed that, in her frailty, he should be very prudent in how he acted, and leave nature, and what little he could do himself, to restore her to her former mental and physical health.
"You will remain awhile longer, Mr. Winthrope? I am growing better," she said.
"I hesitate about remaining, Miss Jarney, for fear of disturbing your peace," he answered.
"I rest better after seeing you," she whispered, with a trembling voice, as if she would break into crying.
"Then I am assured that I may come again?" he asked.
"You must come often—very often—every day—will you?"