"It's Mary!" said a trembling voice—"You know me, don't you? Oh, dearie, if you would but try to rouse yourself, you'd get well even now!"
He gazed at her in a kind of childish admiration.
"It's Mary!" he echoed, faintly—"And who is Mary?"
"Don't you remember?" And rising from her knees, she dashed away her tears and smiled at him—"Or is it too hard for you to think at all about it just now? Didn't I find you out on the hills in the storm, and bring you home here?—and didn't I tell you that my name was Mary?"
He kept his eyes upon her wistful face,—and presently a wan smile crossed his lips.
"Yes!—so you did!" he answered—"I know you now, Mary! I've been ill, haven't I?"
She nodded at him—the tears were still wet on her lashes.
"Very ill!"
"Ill all night, I suppose?"
She nodded again.