"She wishes to see you. She's called you so many times. Shall I bring her in here?"
"No. I'll get up and dress myself."
"I wouldn't do that. You've been sick."
"Father! father!" The clear, earnest voice of Mary was heard calling.
"I'm coming, dear," answered Morgan.
"Come quick, father, won't you?"
"Yes, love." And Morgan got up and dressed himself—but with unsteady hands, and every sign of nervous prostration. In a little while, with the assistance of his wife, he was ready, and supported by her, came tottering into the room where Mary was lying.
"Oh, father!"—What a light broke over her countenance.—"I've been waiting for you so long. I thought you were never going to wake up. Kiss me, father."
"What can I do for you, Mary?" asked Morgan, tenderly, as he laid his face down upon the pillow beside her.
"Nothing, father. I don't wish for anything. I only wanted to see you."