"I have sent for her; she is coming."
"All right!" he answered. "Stuff her when she comes. Give her all the mince pie she can eat, and all the griddle cakes. She never saw any at home."
After that he was more quiet; but every morning and evening he asked, "Has Bessie come?" and when told, "Not yet," he would reply, "Send her to me when she comes; I want to see her."
And so the time went on until the fever spent itself, and there came a morning when Grey awoke to perfect consciousness of the present and a vague remembrance of the past. They told him how long he had been sick, and how anxious they had been.
"Did I talk much?" he asked his Aunt Lucy, when she was alone with him.
"Yes, most of the time," she replied, and over his face there flitted a shadow of fear lest he had talked of things he ought not.
"What did I say?" he asked; and she told him as nearly as she could remember.
"And Aunt Hannah was here all the time? Where is she now?" he inquired; and Lucy replied:
She went home last night, for the first time in two weeks. She had to go, as the snow had drifted under the eaves, and the house was leaking badly."
"Is she there alone?" Grey asked, with a shudder, as he thought of that hidden grave under the floor.