He stepped back, with a sudden look of dismay on his face.
"What mean you, Prudence?" he said, quickly. "You do not think that—that—there is fear—that I should look at her now?"
"Nay, not so; I trust not," she said simply. "But if you wished, you might slip up the stair; 'twould do no harm."
He stooped and took off his shoes and threw them aside; then she led the way into the house, and they went stealthily up the short wooden stair. The door was open an inch or two; Prudence opened it still farther, but did not go into the room. Nor did he; he remained at the threshold, for Judith's mother, who was sitting by the bedside, and who had noticed the slight opening of the door, had raised her hand quietly, as if in warning. And was this Judith, then, that the cold morning light, entering by the small casement, showed him—worn and wasted, the natural radiance of her face all fled, and in place of that a dull, hectic tone that in nowise concealed the ravages the fever had made? But she slept sound. The bent arm, that she had raised to her head ere she fell asleep, lay absolutely still. No, it was not the Judith he had known—so gay and radiant and laughing in the summer meadows; but the wasted form still held a precious life, and he had no mistrust—he would not doubt; there was there still what would win back for him the Judith that he had known—ay, if they had to wait all through the winter for the first silver-white days of spring.
They stole down-stairs again and went to the front door. All the world was awaking now; the light was clear around them; the small birds were twittering in the bushes.
"And will you not go and get some sleep now, Prudence?" said he. "Surely you have earned it; and now there is the chance."
"I could not," she said simply. "There will be time for sleep by-and-by. But now, if you would do us a service, will you go over to the town, and tell Susan that Judith is sleeping peacefully, and that she need not hurry back, for there be plenty of us to watch and wait? And Julius would like to hear the good news, that I know. Then you yourself—do you not need rest? Why——"
"Heed not for me, dear Prudence," said he quickly, as if it were not worth while wasting time on that topic. "But is there naught else I can do for you? Naught that I can bring for you—against her getting well again?"
"Nay, 'tis all too soon for that," was Prudence's answer. "I would the occasion were here, and sure."
Well, he went away over to the town, and told his tale to those that were astir, leaving a message for those who were not; and then he passed on to his own house, and threw himself on his bed. But he could not rest. It was too far away, while all his thoughts were concentrated on the small cottage over there. So he wandered back thither, and again had assurance that Judith was doing well; and then he went quietly up to the summer-house and sat down there; and scarcely had he folded his arms on the little table, and bent forward his head, than he was in a deep sleep, nature claiming her due at last.