“Oh! that's all right.” And almost immediately Perkins was dozing as before.
In the room above, the watcher and watched kept their place.
Franz clasped her hands fast in both of his, as though through sheer physical strength he would keep her with him. As yet she had indicated by no sign that she understood what was going on about her. It was always the same tired tossing, but with greater weakness there slowly succeeded greater calm.
With a fixed rapt look Franz's gaze sought her face and never wavered; it preserved its direction as steadily from beneath his broad straight brows as though he really saw.
She turned restlessly for the thousandth time, and as he had a thousand times already, he whispered softly, “Margaret.”
Hitherto his words had fallen on deaf ears, now the head moved upon the pillow—the sweet wan face was raised to his.
“Margaret,” he said, “Margaret, do you hear me? My little wife! My little wife!” As he spoke her eyes opened.
The room was unlighted save for the night-lamp burning on the table, and peering at her in the gloom with those sunken sightless eyes of his, was her husband.
She remembered all. “Franz! Franz!” she cried, in a voice so faint as scarcely to be audible. “It was not a dream? I meant you should have so much,—say you forgive me!”
“You must not grieve, dear,” he said tenderly. “You must not think of me now.”