“He’s awake,” he announced.  “He must have a great deal of rest and quiet just now, but I am sure your presence would give him pleasure, Miss Jelliffe.  You won’t let him talk very much, will you?”

“No,” I promised, and could find no other words.

I moved towards the door, slowly, expecting the others to follow me, but they never stirred.  It was as if by some common consent they had acknowledged some right of mine to enter alone.  Suddenly my limbs began to drag under me, as if I had been a tottering, old woman.  I wondered what his first look would say to me, what the first word from his lips would portend?  It seemed as if I were going in there like one who sought some hidden treasure, knowing which door it lay behind but stricken with fear lest some unseen Cerberus might be crouching in wait for the rash seeker after happiness.  Oh!  Aunt Jennie!  The tenseness of that moment!  The feeling that, like the Snowbird a few days ago, I was moving through a fog-hidden world of peril!

My nails were dug into the palms of my hands as I entered the shack, and his head turned slowly as I came in, and in his eyes I saw the confession his babbling had revealed to me.  But then an expression of pain came also, that made me involuntarily look at Frenchy’s little crucifix on the wall.

So I just kneeled down by him, and once more took that poor thin hand within my own.  I spoke very low, and in such a shaky voice, but very quick, for fear I might not be able to continue.

“Don’t give up hope,” I said.  “We despaired for so many long days, and now you are getting well again, and the dear sun is rising from the mists, and the world is very beautiful, and I long to make it more beautiful for you.”

I saw two big tears gathering in the corners of the poor sunken eyes, and the long white hand pressed mine, weakly, and that mark of the pangs of the crucified passed away.

“You must lie very still,” I continued, “and let us make you well and strong again, for you’ve made dear Sweetapple Cove now, after being nearly ‘ketched’ by those dreadful seas, and I know that our little ship is coming safely to port.”

For a moment he could only close his eyes, as if the poor, little, dawning light that was beginning to come through the windows had been too bright for him, but his hand pressed mine again.  Then he looked at me once more, eagerly, as if he longed for other words of mine.

“No,” I said.  “One mustn’t talk too much to people who have been so dreadfully ill, and really I can say nothing more now.  Indeed I have said all I could, because a woman can’t let her happiness fly away on account of—­of people who are too proud to speak, but—­but you can whisper a word or two.”

There were three of them that came from his lips, those three thrilling words I had despaired of ever hearing from him.

“And I also love you, John, with all my heart and soul,” I answered.