"Then, let her see her aunt, for a few moments at a time, only cautioning her to avoid all exciting topics. In short, Mistress Curtis, you might as well let her have what she wants, poor thing. I do not believe it will make any difference."
These words were spoken at the door, and I was not supposed to hear them, but I did, and knew their import well enough. I was not at all troubled at the idea of dying, but somehow I seemed to have an assurance in my mind that the end was not yet. Mistress Curtis brought me a dainty little mess of frumenty with cream, and having eaten it, I turned over and went to sleep. I must have slept long, for when I waked, it was growing dark. I was quite easy in respect of pain, and my head felt clear. I looked up and thought I was dreaming again, when I saw an upright little figure seated by the side of my bed.
"Aunt Davis, is this really yourself?" I asked, putting out my hand to feel if she were a substantial person.
"Yes, my sweet," tranquilly answered the dear woman. She was never one to give way to fits and transports. "Mistress Curtis gave me leave to sit with you awhile. Do you feel better?"
"I believe I do," I answered. "My head does not ache now, and I can see every thing clearly."
It had been one of my worst annoyances that I saw all objects either double or distorted. My aunt felt my pulse and my forehead, and helped me to a drink. Then she sat down again, and for awhile I was content to lie and look at her. She had grown old a good deal, it seemed to me. And her face had a look of patient endurance which did not use to belong to it.
"Aunt," I asked, presently, "where is Margaret?"
"Safe, as we hope," answered Mistress Davis. "We know the vessel reached the Brill in safety, and once there, Master Hall would be among good friends."
"Thank God—and how is Master Davis?"
"He is well," she answered. "We were in peril for a time, but we have been unmolested."