“The signs are favorable.”
Mrs. Floyd did not respond. She was looking at her daughter with an expression of unutterable grief upon her countenance.
I did not attempt to give medicine, but left unerring nature to do her own work.
Mrs. Dewey did not again look upon the faces of her dead children. They were buried ere her mind awoke to any knowledge of passing events. I was at the funeral, and closely observed her husband. He appeared very sober, and shed some tears at the grave, when the little coffins were lowered together into the earth.
It was a week before Mrs. Dewey was clearly conscious of external things. I visited her every day, watching, with deep interest, her slow convalescence. It was plain, as her mind began to recover its faculties, that the memory of a sad event had faded; and I was anxious for the effect, when this painful remembrance was restored.
One day I found her sitting up in her room. She smiled feebly as I came in, and said:
“Doctor, am I never going to get well? It seems like an age since I became sick.”
“You are getting on finely,” I answered, in a cheerful way, sitting down by her and taking her hand, which was wasted and shadowy.
“I don't know about that, Doctor,” she said.
“What makes me so weak? I've no more strength than a babe. And that reminds me of a frightful dream I had.” And her countenance changed.