A sigh of ineffable satisfaction escaped his lips. Very gently, in order not to startle her, he drew her closer to him, "Derrice, this is love."
"Is it? It is more like death," and, raising her head, she looked sharply at him.
"To love is to suffer, darling."
"And is this the way you have been feeling about me?"
"Yes, yes; I cannot describe the long-drawn-out misery of the past few weeks."
In proud, sweet dignity she put her arms around his neck, kissed him once, then gently forced his head back on the pillow. "I shall never make you suffer again, and now I must enforce the doctor's orders. You are to be kept still."
In a fascinated, incredulous ecstasy he watched her as she took up her position at his bedside. He could not persuade her to talk, and when, with an irrepressible remark, he occasionally lifted his head, she immediately averted her own, and he had a glimpse only of a pale, happy cheek. However, she sometimes extended a hand, and, with an air quite grandmotherly, smoothed the coverlet, or pressed his fingers, in order to assure him that she was not sleeping at her post of duty.
CHAPTER XI.
IN THE MIDST OF LIFE WE ARE IN DEATH.