"And you, Prudence," said he, or rather he whispered it eagerly, that no sound should disturb the profound quiet of the house, "now you must go and lie down; you are worn out; why, you are all trembling——"
"The morning air is a little cold," said she; but it was not that that caused her trembling.
"You must go and lie down, and get some sleep too," said he (but glancing up at the window, as if his thoughts were there). "What a patient watcher you have been! And now when there is this chance—do, dear Prudence, go within and lie down for a while——"
"Oh, how could I?" she said; and unknown to herself she was wringing her hands—not from grief, but from mere excitement and nervousness. "But for this sleep, now, the doctor was fearing the worst. I know it, though he would not say it. And she is so weak! Even if this sleep calm her brain, or if she come out of it in her right mind—one never knows, she is so worn away—she might waken only to slip away from us."
But he would not hear of that. No, no; this happy slumber was but the beginning of her recovery. Now that she was on the turn, Judith's brave constitution would fight through the rest. He knew it; he was sure of it; had there ever been a healthier, a happier wench—or one with such gallant spirits and cheerfulness?
"You have not seen her these last two days," Prudence said, sadly.
"Nay, I fear not now—I know she will fight through," said he, confidently (even with an excess of confidence, so as to cheer this patient and gentle nurse). "And what a spite it is that I can do nothing? Did you ask the doctor, Prudence? Is there nothing that I can fetch him from Harwich? ay, or from London, for that matter? 'Tis well for you that can do so much for your friend: what can I do but hang about the lanes? I would take a message anywhere, for any of you, if you would but tell me; 'tis all that I can do. But when she is getting better, that will be different—that will be all different then; I shall be able to get her many things, to please her and amuse her; and—and—think of this, Prudence," said he, his fancies running away with him in his eagerness, "do you not think, now, that when she is well enough to be carried into the garden—do you not think that Pleydell and I could devise some kind of couch, to be put on wheels, see you, and slung on leather bands, so that it would go easily? Why, I swear it could be made—and might be in readiness for her. What think you, Prudence? No one could object if we prepared it. Ay, and we should get it to go as smooth as velvet, so that she could be taken along the lanes or through the meadows."
"I would there were need of it," Prudence said, wistfully. "You go too fast. Nay, but if she come well out of this deep sleep, who knows? Pray Heaven there be need for all that you can do for her."
The chirping of a small bird close by startled them—it was the first sound of the coming day. And then she said, regarding him,
"Would you like to see Judith—for a moment? 'Twould not disturb her."