“Yes; I only want to lie and rest. Don’t leave me, Mr Burge. Hold my hand.”
There was a sweet, calm look upon her face as she lay there, holding feebly by the hand that tenderly grasped hers, and her eyes half-closed as if in sleep.
From time to time William Forth Burge exchanged glances with his sister, but the looks he received in return were always encouraging, and he sat there, care-worn and anxious, but at the same time feeling supremely happy.
An hour had passed before Hazel spoke again, and then it was in a dreamy, thoughtful whisper.
“I’ve been thinking about the past,” she said, “and recalling all that has been done for me. I cannot talk much; but, Mr Burge, I can feel it all. Don’t—don’t think me ungrateful.”
“No, no,” he whispered, as he bent down and kissed her hand; “I never could.”
“I was thinking about—about when you asked me—to be your wife.”
“Yes, yes, my dear!” he said eagerly; “but I was mad then. It was only an old fellow’s fancy. I could not help it. It was foolish, and I ought to have known better. But we know one another now, and all you’ve got to do, my dear, is to grow well and strong, and find out that William Burge is man enough to do what’s right.”
She lay thinking for some little time, and then he felt that a feeble effort was being made to draw his hand closer to her face, and yielding it, once more a wild throb ran through his nerves, for she feebly drew his hand to her cheek and held it there.
“I was very blind then,” she said in a whisper; “but I am not blind now.”