At the end of a week Sophy fell into a long sleep, so quiet and still, that I several times leaned over her to see that she still breathed. This sleep the doctors said was the crisis of her illness, and upon the state in which she woke depended her life and reason.
Very long she lay so; the time seeming even longer than it was, to us watching by her side, longing for, and yet fearing, her waking. At last she moved slightly, and her eyes opened. I leant over her and saw that she knew me.
"Do not try to talk, dear," I said; "you have been ill, but are better now, do not trouble about anything. I am here to watch you, and your kind nurse, Mrs. Green, is beside you."
The old woman gently took one of Sophy's hands in her own; she could not speak, for she was crying now with joy and thankfulness.
Sophy gave a very faint smile of pleasure and recognition, and then taking a little medicine, which the doctor had prepared in readiness for her waking, she closed her eyes, and was soon again asleep.
A great burden was lifted from our hearts, for the doctor said that he had every hope now, for that nature had made a wonderful effort, that he believed she was saved, body and mind.
This time she slept about two hours, and when she woke, even my unpractised eye could see that she was decidedly better than before.
After the first faint look of pleased recognition at Mrs. Green and myself, and a little pressure of the fingers we held in ours, she lay quite quiet, but with her eyes open as if thinking. Then they wandered over the room as if in vague wonder as to where she was. Presently she spoke in a voice which sounded strangely low and weak, after the loud ravings and terrible screams of the past week.
"Where am I? What has happened?"
"You have been very ill, darling," I said soothingly, "but you will be better now. Do not wonder or trouble about anything; you are with friends, and when you get strong enough, you shall hear all about it."