He answered huskily:
“In one of the novels I brought her I must have left a copy of some verses I had written, for she seems to be reading them.”
They moved a little closer, and she looked up at them with a smile of childlike confidence and joy, exclaiming eagerly:
“See, my poet-lover has sent me some more of his sweet verses!”
It was the first comprehensive sentence she had uttered since coming to the asylum, nearly four months before.
They could not answer for surprise, and Eva added, with gentle happiness:
“Now I know that my unknown lover is not dead. It is so long—so long—since he sent me my tokens of his love that I thought he was dead.”
“My dear Eva!” Doctor Bertrand cried, with tender sympathy, and catching hold of her hand, Eva continued:
“Many times I have looked on the window sill at dawn for the tokens he used to leave there—the wildflowers with the dew on their fragrant petals, the boxes of candy, the poetry books, and, sweetest of all the dear poems in praise of me that thrilled my heart with joy in every word. Do you remember how jealous and angry the twins were when I first told them about my splendid unknown lover?” She stopped and pressed her lips to the paper in her hand, thrilling one heart to a secret, inexpressible ecstasy.
“How wonderful! She seems almost sane. She has never talked as much as that to any one here before. I am glad you left your verses in the book. They seem to have struck some vibrating chord in her fancy. Can it be fancy, or a reality?” Doctor Bertrand murmured excitedly to her companion, who answered with gleaming eyes: