I was obliged to make the faithful girl share my bed, for I could not prevail upon her to leave me. Probably her presence was some little help to me in the way of preventing any indulgence of sentiment, had I been inclined to yield to it again. When morning came, cool and fresh and sunny after the storm, I was myself again; not my looks—the effects of the storm which had passed over me were not to be so easily effaced—but I was nerved in spirit for what was to come. In the early morning—so early that Becky had barely time to slip away—came Lilian in her white wrapper; and then I noticed how fragile she had become. My darling, had I been even for a moment so unjust as to doubt you, I could have doubted you no longer! She was full of loving sympathy about my hand.
'Dear Mary, I could not sleep for thinking of you. Even now you do not look quite yourself.'
'Nevertheless, I am myself.'
She nestled closer to me, looking anxiously and doubtfully up into my face. How thankful I should have been just at that moment if love were as blind as it is sometimes depicted as being!
'No; not quite your old self. Say—do say that you love me, Mary.'
'Is it necessary to say it, Lilian?'
'Yes;' feverishly.
'Then I love you, child.'
'And—and say that you believe my love for you is true—say it!'
'I know that your love for me is true, my sister.'