North glanced at the bed, and his heart beat fast. Leo was again sleeping uneasily, and muttering in a low whisper. To an ordinary observer there seemed to be none, but to Horace North there was an enormous change, and he asked himself whether he should speak now or wait.
He could not speak then of the subject nearest to his heart. He and Salis had always been the most intimate of friends—almost brothers—and they would be quite brothers in the future; but he could not tell him then.
“She seems calmer,” he whispered. “She was awake and talking a little while ago.”
“What—lucidly—sensibly?”
In spite of himself North could not help a start as he turned and met his friend’s eye, while his words were slow and constrained as he said, in a hesitating manner:
“Yes; I think so. But she is very weak.” And the mental question insisted upon being heard—Was she speaking sensibly, and as one in the full possession of her senses?
“North, old fellow, this is great news,” cried the curate. “Heaven be thanked! I must go and tell Mary.”
He was hurrying from the room, but his friend caught his arm.
“No, no; not yet,” he said hurriedly. “I would not raise her hopes too much.”
“Not when she is starving for the merest crumb of comfort? I must tell her.”