“Thank you,” she answered, simply.  “I will count you and Tardif as my friends.  But I have no others, so you need not write to anybody.”

“But what if you had died?” I persisted.

“You would have buried me quietly up there,” she answered, “in the pleasant graveyard, where the birds sing all day long, and I should have been forgotten soon.  Am I likely to die, Dr. Martin?”

“Certainly not,” I replied, hastily; “nothing of the kind.  You are going to get well and strong again.  But I must bid you good-by, now, since you have no friends to write to.  Can I do any thing for you in Guernsey?  I can send you any thing you fancy.”

“I do not want any thing,” she said.

“You want a great number of things,” I said; “medicines, of course—­what is the good of a doctor who sends no medicine?—­and books.  You will have to keep yourself quiet a long time.  You would like some books?”

“Oh, I have longed for books,” she said, sighing; “but don’t buy any; lend me some of your own.”

“Mine would be very unsuitable for a young lady,” I answered, laughing at the thought of my private library.  “May I ask why I am not to buy any?”

“Because I have no money to spend in books,” she said.

“Well,” I replied, “I will borrow some for you from the ladies I know.  We will not waste our money, neither you nor I.”

I stood looking at her, finding it harder to go away than I had supposed.  So closely had I watched the changes upon her face, that every line of it was deeply engraved upon my memory.  Other and more familiar faces seemed to have faded in proportion to that distinctness of impression.  Julia’s features, for instance, had become blurred and obscure, like a painting which has lost its original clearness of tone.

“How soon will you come back again?” asked the faint, plaintive voice.

Clearly it did not occur to her that I could not pay her a visit without great difficulty.  I knew how it was next to an impossibility to get over to Sark, for some time at least; but I felt ready to combat even impossibilities.

“I will come back,” I said—­“yes, I promise to come back in a week’s time.  Make haste and get well before then, mam’zelle.  Good-by, now; good-by.”

I was going to sleep at Vaudin’s Inn, near to Creux Harbor, from which the cutter would sail almost before the dawn.  At five o’clock we started on oar passage—­a boat-load of fishermen bound for the market.  The cold was sharp, for it was still early in March, and the easterly wind pierced the skin like a myriad of fine needles.  A waning moon was hanging in the sky over Guernsey, and the east was growing gray with the coming morning.  By the time the sun was fairly up out of its bed of low-lying clouds, we had rounded the southern point of Sark, and were in sight of the Havre Gosselin.  But Tardif’s cottage was screened by the cliffs, and I could catch no glimpse of it, though, as we rowed onward, I saw a fine, thin column of white smoke blown toward us.  It was from his hearth, I knew, and, at this moment, he was preparing an early breakfast for my invalid.  I watched it till all the coast became an indistinct outline against the sky.