“Fear it, my dear? No!” he said, taking her thin white hand, kissing it, and making as if to lay it reverently back upon the coverlet; but the fingers closed round his, and a thrill of joy shot through his breast, as it seemed for the moment that she was clinging to him.
“How am I ever to thank you enough?” she said, in a faint whisper. “Why have you brought me here? It troubles me. I feel as if I should make you suffer.”
“But you mustn’t talk now, my darling,” whispered little Miss Burge. “Wait till the doctor has been, and only lie still now and rest your poor self.”
“Yes—rest,” she said feebly—“rest. I feel so easy now. All that dreadful pain has gone.”
“Thank God!”
She turned her eyes upon the speaker with a grateful look and smiled faintly, motioning to him to take the chair by the bedside.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Yes; keep hold of my hand. You have been so kind, and I seem to see it all now so plainly.”
“But my darling, you must not talk. There, just say a word or two to him, and then he must go. I’m going to ask the doctor to come and see you now.”
“No: let him wait. I must talk now. Perhaps to-night my senses will go again, and I shall be wandering on and on amongst the troubles once more.”
“Then you will be very still, dear.”