"Don't give up hope," I said. "We despaired for so many long days, and now you are getting well again, and the dear sun is rising from the mists, and the world is very beautiful, and I long to make it more beautiful for you."
I saw two big tears gathering in the corners of the poor sunken eyes, and the long white hand pressed mine, weakly, and that mark of the pangs of the crucified passed away.
"You must lie very still," I continued, "and let us make you well and strong again, for you've made dear Sweetapple Cove now, after being nearly 'ketched' by those dreadful seas, and I know that our little ship is coming safely to port."
For a moment he could only close his eyes, as if the poor, little, dawning light that was beginning to come through the windows had been too bright for him, but his hand pressed mine again. Then he looked at me once more, eagerly, as if he longed for other words of mine.
"No," I said. "One mustn't talk too much to people who have been so dreadfully ill, and really I can say nothing more now. Indeed I have said all I could, because a woman can't let her happiness fly away on account of—of people who are too proud to speak, but—but you can whisper a word or two."
There were three of them that came from his lips, those three thrilling words I had despaired of ever hearing from him.
"And I also love you, John, with all my heart and soul," I answered.
Then we were very still for some time, and presently some one coughed rather hard outside, and fumbled with the door, and the nice doctor boy came in.
"I mustn't allow you people to talk too long," he said. "It is time he had a good drink of milk, and after that he must have some more sleep, and we'll have him topside up in no time."
Then Mr. Barnett came in too, but he never said a word. There was just a glance, a pressure of hands, and that was all, but it seemed to mean ever so much to them.