All saw the propriety of this, and so only Jessie was present when Richard first sat down by Dora’s side, and taking her hot hand pressed it between his own, calling her by name and asking if she knew him.
“Yes, Richard, and you have come to save me; I am so glad, and the night was so long, with the light on the wall,” Dora replied, and over her cheeks the tears fell refreshingly.
“You have done her good already,” Jessie whispered to the doctor, who, repressing his intense desire to hug the sick girl to his bosom, proceeded carefully to examine every symptom and then to prescribe.
She was very sick, he said, and the utmost quiet was necessary; only a few must be allowed to see her, and no one should be admitted whose presence disturbed her in the least. This was virtually keeping Squire Russell away, for his presence did disturb her, as had been apparent all the day, for she grew restless and talkative and feverish the moment he appeared. It smote the doctor cruelly to see how meekly he received the order.
“Save her, doctor,” he said, “save my Dora and I will not mind giving you all I’m worth.”
But the power to save was not vested in Dr. West. He could only use the means, and then with agony of soul pray that they might be blessed, that Dora might live even though she should never be his. It was unnecessary for him to return to Mrs. Markham’s, and yielding to what seemed best for all, he remained at Squire Russell’s during the dreadful days of suspense when Dora’s life hung on a thread, when Bell and Mattie, both of whom came in answer to Robert’s telegram, bent over her pillow, always turning away with the feeling that she must die, when Jessie, yielding her place as nurse to more experienced hands, took the children to the farthest part of the building, where she kept them quiet, stifling her tears while she sang to them childish songs, or told them fairy stories; and when Squire Russell, banished from the sick-room, sat in the hall all the day long watching Dora’s door with a wistful, beseeching look, which touched the hearts of those who saw it, and who knew of the blow in store for him even if Dora lived. It was no secret now, to five at least, that Dora could never be Squire Russell’s wife. Mrs. West, Bell, Mattie, Jessie, and Robert all knew it, and while four approved most heartily, Jessie in her great pity hardly knew what she should advise. She was so sorry for him sitting so patiently by the hall window, and she wanted so much to comfort him. Sometimes, as she passed near him, she did stop, and smoothing his hair, tell him how sorry she was, while beneath the touch of those snowy fingers, his heart throbbed with a feeling which prompted him to think much of Jessie, even while he kept that tireless watch near Dora.
It was strange how the doctor bore up, appearing better than when he first came to Dora. It was excitement, he knew, and he was glad of the artificial strength which kept him at her side, noting every change with minuteness which went far toward effecting the cure for which he prayed.
Two weeks had passed away, and then one night, just as the autumn twilight was stealing into the room, Dora woke from a long, heavy sleep, which Richard had watched breathlessly, for on its issue hung her life or death. It was over now, and the hand Richard held was wet with perspiration. Dora was saved, and burying his head upon her pillow, the doctor said aloud:
“I thank thee, O my Father, for giving me back my darling.”
Richard was alone, for Bell and Mattie had both left the room to take their supper, and there was no one present to see the look of unutterable joy which crept into his face, when, in response to his thanksgiving, a faint voice said: