CHAPTER XXII.
I had not been long in the conservatory when I heard the wheels of a carriage. Mr. Bristed had returned. He ascended the steps: I heard his voice in the hall. His first words were an inquiry after my welfare. He was told that I was better. Passing through his apartments, he entered the study. I could see him plainly from the windows of the conservatory. He looked, I thought, thin and sad; his hair had become sprinkled with gray since the time when I resided in his mansion. Turning to Mary, who was waiting there for me, he said: “I feel faint; bring me a cup of tea.”
Mary left the room on her mission, and I stole from my hiding place.
“Mr. Bristed,” whispered I, coming softly up behind his chair.
He started. “Whose voice is that? Agnes, where are you?”
“Here, sir,” I answered, as I touched him lightly.
He turned toward me, his face flushed with pleasure, his eyes expectant.
“You, Agnes—you, verily? How came you here? I thought you were ill off your pillow. What pleasant trick is this you have been playing me?” Then taking both my hands in his and surveying me, his eyes the while beaming with soft pleasure, he said:
“Oh, I am so happy that you are better. But you are wrong to come here; you will make yourself ill again.”
I told him how I had awakened, and of my glad surprise in finding myself in my old chamber again, and how I had insisted on coming down to thank him for his kindness in bringing me hither.