Lizzie betook herself with trembling haste to Jack's bedside.
He was propped up with pillows. His pale cheeks were slightly flushed. His eyes were bright. He raised himself, and, for such feeble arms, gave Lizzie a long, strong embrace.
"I've not seen you all day, Lizzie," said he. "Where have you been?"
"Dear Jack, they wouldn't let me come near you. I begged and prayed. And I wanted so to go to you in the army; but I couldn't. I wish, I wish I had!"
"You wouldn't have liked it, Lizzie. I'm glad you didn't. It's a bad, bad place."
He lay quietly, holding her hands and gazing at her.
"Can I do anything for you, dear?" asked the young girl. "I would work my life out. I'm so glad you're better!"
It was some time before Jack answered,—
"Lizzie," said he, at last, "I sent for you to look at you.—You are more wondrously beautiful than ever. Your hair is brown,—like—like nothing; your eyes are blue; your neck is white. Well, well!"
He lay perfectly motionless, but for his eyes. They wandered over her with a kind of peaceful glee, like sunbeams playing on a statue. Poor Ford lay, indeed, not unlike an old wounded Greek, who at falling dusk has crawled into a temple to die, steeping the last dull interval in idle admiration of sculptured Artemis.