I was in a room which the sun entered to make bright and cheerful. The beams overhead reflected back the light, a fire on the hearth threw out a genial warmth, the kettle on the hob hummed and hissed, a great mother cat, by the chimney place, purred in contentment.
There was a movement in the room. A woman stood over me looking down. I seemed to know, rather than see, that she was the woman of my dreams--Lucille.
I glanced up at her. Her face was alight with love and tenderness. I tried to speak--to rise--but the strength, of which I used to boast, had left me. I could only murmur her name.
“Dear heart,” she whispered. “Thank God, you know me. Oh, Edward, it was so long--oh! so long--that I stood by you, only to hear you fighting all your battles over again, with never a sign to show that you knew I was near. Oh, I am so glad!”
Then, woman like, she burst into tears, which she tried in vain to check.
“My, my! What’s this?” called a cheery voice. “Come, Mistress Lucille, have you no better caution than to weep in here. Fie upon you. All hope is not gone yet.”
A woman in a gray dress with a spotless apron over it, bustled to my bed.
“I am not crying, Madame Carteret,” said Lucille with indignation in her tone.
“’Tis much like it,” said the other.
“Well, then, if I am, it is for joy. Edward--I mean Captain Amherst--is sensible again. He tried to speak my name, for he knew me when I turned his pillow.”