She began to pray in a low, whispering voice full of pathos:
“Oh, God, do not be so cruel as to let him die! Give him back to me! He is the only man in the world that I could love! Perhaps that is why you will let him die—to punish me for my wicked flirtations when I did not know what a pain love was—real love that aches in my heart for him, though he despises me. And no wonder, for he is a thousand times too good for me, and could never love me because I have been so vain and silly, for of course he could not know how I have repented now. Oh, God, spare him, don’t let him die—don’t let him die!”
It was enough to move angels to pity, the low, whispering voice, the tears, the clasped hands; but Heaven seemed deaf to her prayer, for the lids still lay heavily on Desha’s eyes, and she could not see his broad chest move with the faintest breath.
Her heart sank with a terrible alarm, and she murmured, wildly:
“I must summon help!”
But just as she was rising from her knees, she saw his eyelids move, then flutter languidly open.
“Oh,” she murmured, in a tremor of joy and thanksgiving, and his large blue eyes gazed languidly into her own.
“Viola!” he murmured, in a soft voice freighted with ecstasy, and she started at the sound of her name from his lips.
“Oh, you are better!” she exclaimed, gladly, her voice trembling with the joy of her heart. “May I help you to rise?” holding out her little hands.
He accepted the proffered aid most eagerly, and when he had risen to his feet, retained the little hands, and drew her suddenly to his heart.