"Speak, lights of God, speak to my waiting heart, speak to my burdened soul and tell me, if you can, what the future holds in store for me. Am I to continue in hell on earth for my evil life? If so, tell me quick that I might dash my head against yonder rock and end the torture now. If not, speak, that she might live. God save her, let not her present illness separate us forever. It would blight my life; it would kill me. Save her that she may save my soul from a torturous hell; save her that her sweet life might be a blessing to the great, big world beyond this mountain, which she so much longs to see."
Jack felt much better—as does anyone after a faithful prayer. He felt that his prayer had been answered already, and rose in great haste to make his way back over the mountain to the bedside of Nora. He had not seen her all day, had been afraid to see her lest he should find her cold in death, but rather spent a great portion of the day in prayer for her immediate relief. When he arrived at the cabin of Peter Judson the flickering candle-light was still in the window, burning low. His heart sank; it was emblematic of a low ebbing life. With bowed head and unsteady step he went in. Old Rover, still lying quietly and silently on the porch, did not rise at Wade's approach, but wagged his tail in recognition. A death-like quiet pervaded the place, a solemn stillness overspread the home, but he was encouraged to go on, with a feeling that matters were improved.
Old Peter met him at the door, and to his anxious, questioning stare he said: "She's much better; the danger is over."
"Thank God," came in broken whisper.
Wade sat down by the bedside and took the slender, pale hand in his own strong one. For a moment no sound came from the lips of either of them, they just looked into each other's eyes until the weaker ones became mist-filled, and those strong, manly eyes of Jack Wade battled hard against heavy odds just at that moment, but the tears were held firmly back while he rubbed the hand which he held.
"I'm much better now, Jack." The voice was low and weak, but sweet and serene. "Your presence is like good medicine. Why haven't you been by before?"
Wade would not tell her that the balm came from God; therein he was weak. His excuse was, however, satisfying to the tired and worn mind, and strength to the wasted frame. She looked up into his face sweetly.
"You look so tired and worn, Jack," she said, "have you been worrying a great deal?"
"I have worried much, dear girl, on your account. Now that you are better, I will not look worried any more."
"Have you encountered any trouble lately, has your life been threatened?"