He sighed again, turned on his back, and opened his eyes.
He saw her face hanging over him—upside down, it seemed. Yet even inverted, and seen through the mists of sleep, that face conveyed something which he did not understand, something so strange that he caught his breath, gasping, and blundered to his feet.
The girl still sat, looking up at him.
"What is it?" he asked, sharply.
But Amaryllis had forgotten herself altogether, and did not know that he found his wonder in her face.
"What is what?" she asked, simply.
"Your face——" he began, and could find no more words.
"My face," she echoed, puzzled, and feeling blindly for a handkerchief. "It's all right, isn't it?"
"It's glorious—shining with happiness," he answered, his voice sounding like that of a man in pain.
"Weren't you glad," asked Amaryllis, "when you'd got me off to sleep, and when I woke up all alive again? I know it didn't make you look anything but stern and pre-occupied and business-like; I felt as if you were pleased, though. I'm different, and show things in my face, I suppose."