“It will not fade, father. The time you speak of was only yesterday, when I found you. You have been sleeping since, and a doctor is attending you.”
“A doctor! where did he come from?”
At that moment Ebony approached with some food in a tin pan. The invalid observed him at once.
“Ebony! can that be you? Why—when—oh! my poor brain feels so light—it seems as if a puff of wind would blow it away. I must have been very ill.” Zeppa spoke feebly, and closed his eyes, from which one or two tears issued—blessed tears!—the first he had shed for many a day.
“His reason is restored,” whispered the doctor in Orlando’s ear, “but he must be left to rest.”
Orlando’s heart was too full to find relief through the lips.
“I cannot understand it at all,” resumed Zeppa, reopening his eyes; “least of all can I understand you, Orley, but my hope is in God. I would sleep now, but you must not let go my hand.” (Orlando held it tighter.) “One word more. Your dear mother?”
“Is well—and longs to see you.”
A profound, long-drawn sigh followed, as if an insupportable burden had been removed from the wearied soul, and Zeppa sank into a sleep so peaceful that it seemed as if the spirit had forsaken the worn out frame. But a steady, gentle heaving of the chest told that life was still there. During the hours that followed, Orlando sat quite motionless, like a statue, firmly grasping his father’s hand.