“Hah!”
A long-drawn sigh of content, which made Cornelia Thorpe emerge from her chair behind the bed-curtains, and bend over to lay her soft white hand upon the patient’s forehead, but only for it to be taken and held to his lips.
“Well, angel?” he said quietly.
“Your head is quite cool; there is no fever. Have you had a good night’s rest?”
“Good, my child? It has been heavenly. I seemed to sink at once into a delicious dreamless sleep, such as I have not known for a year, and I feel as if I had not stirred all night.”
“You have not.”
“Then you have watched by me?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Hah!” There was a pause. Then: “You must have given me a strong dose?”
“No,” said Cornel, smiling. “Your sleep was quite natural. Why should it not be? Michael says the cause of all your suffering is completely removed, and that he has been successful beyond his hopes.”