"Oh, yes, yes! forgive me for not telling you before; but it was a secret. No one knew of it; we were married in private."
"Ah, those hidden marriages never come to any good," said Uncle Reuben, as he shook his head and glanced at Bertha, who all this time had been standing at the foot of the bed, gazing with a sort of vague interest and curiosity from one face to the other. "What if her fate had been thine?"
"It has scarcely been more happy," said Christie, without lifting her eyes; "but this moment, to see him once more, to touch his hand, to know I am near him again, almost repays me for all I have suffered. Now, at least, I can die happy, since I have the opportunity of telling him I forgive him all."
"Forgive him! Then he has wronged thee?"
"Hush!" said Christie, turning, if possible, paler than before. "He loved me once, and I wish to forget everything but that. But, Uncle Reuben, are you sure he will recover? I see no signs of it yet," said Christie, in rising alarm.
"I do; even now consciousness is returning," said Uncle Reuben, as a slight movement of the muscles of the face became perceptible.
"Willard! Willard! dearest Willard, look up!" she said, bending anxiously over him.
Was it the startling sound of that well-remembered voice—that voice he imagined forever stilled in death—that awoke him? The large dark eyes slowly opened, wandered wildly around, and the first object on which they rested was Christie.