Reginald, however, seemed to recover semiconsciousness all at once. The room in which he lay was most artistically adorned, the pictures beautifully draped, coloured candles, mirrors, and brackets everywhere. He looked around him half-dazed; then his eyes were fixed on Annie.
“Where am I?” he asked. “Is this Heaven? Are you an—an—angel?”
He half-lifted himself in the bed, but she gently laid him back on the snow-white pillows again.
“You must be good, dear,” she said, as if he had been a baby. “Be good and try to sleep.”
And the eyes were closed once more, and the slumber now was sweet and refreshing. When he awoke again, after some hours, his memory had returned, and he knew all. His voice was very feeble, but he asked for his friend, Craig Nicol. But business had taken Craig away south to London, and it would be a fortnight before he could return.
Ah! what a happy time convalescence is, and happier still was it for Reginald with a beautiful nurse like Annie—Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee.
In a week’s time he was able to sit in an easy-chair in the drawing-room. Annie sang soft, low songs to him, and played just as softly. She read to him, too, both verse and prose. Soon he was able to go for little drives, and now got rapidly well.
Is it any wonder that, thrown together in so romantic a way, these two young people fell in love, or that when he plighted his troth Annie shyly breathed the wee word Yes?
Craig Nicol came back at last, and he saw Reginald alone.