CHAPTER XIX.
“Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life;
Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness o’er thee.”
—Thomas Otway.
“She is very weary, poor darling!” Rose said softly.
“Yes,” her husband answered in the same low tones. “She is perfectly healthy I think, but not of a vigorous constitution naturally, and has never fully recovered her strength since—that long and terrible illness.”
His voice was tremulous with emotion as he referred to that time of trial—those long-past days so full of grief, anxiety and remorse that their memory must ever be painful to him.
“I fear I hardly did right in allowing this dissipation,” he went on after a moment’s pause, “but I thought her better able to bear it.”
“Do not be too anxious and troubled, my dear husband,” Rose said in a gentle, affectionate tone, laying her hand lightly on his arm; “I think the dear child will be quite restored by a few hours of sound, refreshing sleep. And I am sure she has enjoyed the evening greatly. I caught sight of her face several times, and it was so bright and happy! So do not reproach yourself because you did not deny her this pleasure.”
“My dear wife! my sweet comforter!” he returned. “How is it with you, my love? are you much fatigued?”