She remained in this state for hours, hardly seeming to breathe, and apparently sinking into the sleep of death.  Her chamber was profoundly still.  The attendants moved about it with noiseless tread; every thing was communicated by signs and whispers.  Her lover sat by her side, watching her with painful anxiety, and fearing that every breath which stole from her pale lips would be the last.

At length she heaved a deep sigh; and, from some convulsive motions, appeared to be troubled in her sleep.  Her agitation increased, accompanied by an indistinct moaning.  One of her companions, remembering the physician’s instructions, endeavoured to lull her by singing, in a low voice, a tender little air, which was a particular favourite of Annette’s.  Probably it had some connexion in her mind with her own story; for every fond girl has some ditty of the kind, linked in her thoughts with sweet and sad remembrances.

As she sang, the agitation of Annette subsided.  A streak of faint colour came into her cheeks; her eyelids became swoln with rising tears, which trembled there for a moment, and then, stealing forth, coursed down her pallid cheek.  When the song was ended, she opened her eyes and looked about her, as one awakening in a strange place.

“Oh, Eugene!  Eugene!” said she, “it seems as if I have had a long and dismal dream; what has happened, and what has been the matter with me?”

The questions were embarrassing; and before they could be answered, the physician, who was in the next room, entered.  She took him by the hand, looked up in his face, and made the same inquiry.  He endeavoured to put her off with some evasive answer;—­“No, no!” cried she, “I know I have been ill, and I have been dreaming strangely.  I thought Eugene had left us—­and that he had gone to sea—­and that—­and that he was drowned!—­But he has been to sea!” added she, earnestly, as recollection kept flashing upon her, “and he has been wrecked—­and we were all so wretched—­and he came home again one bright morning—­and—­Oh!” said she, pressing her hand against her forehead, with a sickly smile, “I see how it is; all has not been right here:  I begin to recollect—­but it is all past now—­Eugene is here! and his mother is happy—­and we shall never—­never part again—­shall we, Eugene?”

She sunk back in her chair, exhausted; the tears streamed down her cheeks.  Her companions hovered round her, not knowing what to make of this sudden dawn of reason.  Her lover sobbed aloud.  She opened her eyes again, and looked upon them with an air of the sweetest acknowledgment.  “You are all so good to me!” said she, faintly.

The physician drew the father aside.  “Your daughter’s mind is restored,” said he; “she is sensible that she has been deranged; she is growing conscious of the past, and conscious of the present.  All that now remains is to keep her calm and quiet until her health is re-established, and then let her be married in God’s name!”