She paused, hesitating to enter. All was still as the grave. She turned the handle softly and peeped in: could it be that Wingfold’s bearing had communicated to her mind a shadow of the awe with which he had left the place where perhaps a soul was being born again? Leopold did not move. Terror laid hold of her heart. She stepped quickly in, and round the screen to the side of the bed. There, to her glad surprise, he lay fast asleep, with the tears not yet dried upon his face. Her heart swelled with some sense unknown before: was it rudimentary thankfulness to the Father of her spirit?
As she stood gazing with the look of a mother over her sick child, he lifted his eyelids, and smiled a sad smile.
“When did you come into the room?” he said.
“A minute ago,” she answered.
“I did not hear you,” he returned.
“No, you were asleep.”
“Not I! Mr. Wingfold is only just gone.”
“I have let him out on the meadow since.”
Leopold stared, looked half alarmed, and then said,
“Did God make me sleep, Helen?”