"Yes; but that's a great deal," Honor retorted, "and we must try all we can to restore you before to-morrow. You were getting on so nicely. I wonder what can have made the difference."
"Why, you'll quite spoil me," the gentle voice tried to say jestingly, but the eyes closed languidly and the head drooped helplessly back among the cushions. Two great, round tears stood in Honors eyes, she bowed her head over the suffering form, and kissed the clammy brow of the invalid—she tried to say something of encouragment, but great sobs of stifled anguish choked the passage in her throat.
A moment after, the sick man raised his lids wearily and looked on the girl's clouded face.
"My dear little one," he faltered, as he saw the wet lashes and the trembling lips, "I think, after all, you love your old friend a little bit."
Honor tried to smile through her tears—it was like a little rainbow bursting through the clouds. She knelt down beside him, and looking up earnestly into his face, said,
"You must get better, if 'twere only for my sake. I did not realize before as I do now how essential you are to my very existence. I shudder to imagine life without you, and yet if you do not eat and nourish yourself during these days, you cannot—" but she would not say the fearful word—her head fell on his shoulder, and she burst into tears.
"My darling!" muttered the unsteady voice of the invalid, "life was never so seductive to me as it is now, there was a time when I did not much mind whether I lived or died, but that was before I had you,—since you have begun to share my solitary life, turning it's dark, dreary nights into days of happy brightness, I have seen it with other eyes. I have resigned my days as they passed, one by one, with a greedy, unwilling resignation, because I had learned to prize them and to love them, after I had prized and loved you; but, now!—if I must give them up all at once and forever, I am not going to grumble." A low sob of suppressed pain escaped the girl's lips. "I have had more comfort in this world than I ever counted upon," he continued, "I have not known poverty or destitution, and since a merciful Creator has spared me from so many briars and thorns of life, I must be doubly resigned to leave the comforts I have so undeservedly enjoyed, and obey His call."
"Oh! dear Mr. Rayne!" sobbed the girl, "do not, pray do not speak like that, you are so low-spirited to-day. You will be quite well yet, you are strong enough to battle with a little illness. Don't say you are going to leave me so willingly—such a thing would break my heart," and bowing her head on her folded arms, she wept silently and bitterly.
After a moment of painful pause, Henry Rayne raised the drooped head and said in a tender, loving accent,
"We are distressing one another, my darling, run away now, and distract yourself elsewhere. I have much to think about." Honor turned to do as she was bid, but she had barely reached the door when she heard the feeble voice of her guardian calling her back. When she stood before him again, his eyes wore a pensive, distracted look, and his voice was wonderfully serious, as he asked,