Seating herself on the wooden stool by his side, she remained watching him with looks of the most devoted interest and affection. In about half an hour he heaved a deep sigh, and opening his eyes, looked around to the spot where she was sitting.
“You are a guardian angel, dear Alice,” said he; “even in my dreams I am conscious of your presence.”
“Saving the little time that I must steal from you to bestow upon my poor father, I shall now be ever present with you,” answered Alice. “I have placed our little one in safe-keeping, and henceforth, while you remain here, I shall have no other care but yourself.”
“Methinks I have already been too much your sole care, even to the neglect of your own health. Yet, except that sad look of sympathy, you seem not the worse for the tending me, else I might, indeed, reproach myself for this illness.”
Well might William Heath say she had nursed him with unselfish care—for never had it fallen to the lot of sick man to be tended with such untiring devotion. For weeks she had watched his every movement and look—anticipated his every wish—smoothed his pillow—held the cup to his parched lips—soothed him with gentle and sympathizing words when in pain—cheered him when despondent—and seized only the intervals when he slept to perform her other duties as a mother and daughter. It is no wonder, therefore, that it appeared to him that she had never been absent from his side.
Gently repelling his insinuation that she had been too regardless of herself, she turned the conversation to a topic which she was conscious would interest and cheer him.
“Continue to make all speed with this recovery, which has thus far progressed so finely,” said she, “for the opportunity for your escape from this gloomy place is only waiting until your strength is sufficiently recruited to embrace it.”
“That prospect it is alone,” replied the invalid, “held up before me so constantly as it has been during my illness, which has had the power to prevent my sinking joyfully into the grave from this miserable bed, rather than recover to die a more violent and unnatural death.”
“It waits alone for your recovery, dearest,” repeated his wife; “and once in the wild woods of America, you will be as unconfined and free as her own mountain air, till the very remembrance of this dungeon will have passed away.”
“Sweet comforter,” he said, taking her hand and pressing it gratefully, “thou wouldst beguile my thoughts thither, even before my footsteps are able to follow them.”