“Well, but I have a request to make.  Allow me to kiss him; I shall not disturb him; and if he should recover, as I trust in the Almighty’s mercy he will—­oh, how I should like to tell him that the dream about his mother was not altogether a dream—­that I did kiss him.  Trust me, I will not awaken him—­the fall of the thistledown will will not be lighter than the kiss I shall give my child.”

“Well, be it so, my lady; and get yourself calm, for you know not his danger, if he should awaken and become agitated.”

They then reentered the apartment, and Lady Gourlay, after contemplating him for a moment or two, stooped down and gently kissed his lips—­once—­twice—­and a third time—­and a single tear fell upon his cheek.  At this moment, and the coincidence was beautiful and affecting, his face became once more irradiated by a smile that was singularly serene and sweet, as if his very spirit within him had recognized and felt the affection and tenderness of this timid but loving embrace.

The stranger then led her out again, and a burden seemed to have been taken off her heart.  She dried her tears, and in grateful and fervid terms expressed the deep obligations she owed him for his generous and! persevering exertions in seeking out and restoring her son.

This sleep was a long one; and proved very beneficial, by somewhat recruiting the little strength that had been left him.  The stranger had every measure taken that could contribute to his comfort and recovery.  Two nurse tenders were procured, to whose care he was committed, under the general superintendence of Dandy Dulcimer, whom he at once recognized, and by whose performance upon that instrument the poor young man seemed not only much-pleased, but improved in confidence and the general powers of his intellect.  The physician saw him twice a day, so that at the period of Lady Gourlay’s visit, she found that every care and attention, which consideration and kindness, and anxiety for his recovery could bestow upon him, had been paid; a fact that eased and satisfied her mind very much.

One rather gratifying symptom appeared in him after he awoke on that occasion.  He looked about the room, and inquired for Dulcimer, who soon made his appearance.

“Dandy,” said he, for he had known him very well in Ballytrain, “will you be angry with me if I ask you a question?  Dandy, I am a gentleman, and you will not treat me ill.”

“I would be glad to see the villain that ’ud dare to do it, Mr. Fenton,” replied Dandy, a good deal moved, “much less to do it myself.”

“Ah,” he replied in a tone of voice that was enough to draw tears from any eye, “but, then, I can depend on no one; and if they should bring me back there—­” His eyes became wild and full of horror, as he spoke, and he was about to betray symptoms of strong agitation, when Dandy judiciously brought him back to the point.

“They won’t, Mr. Fenton; don’t be afeared of that; you are among friends now; but what was the question you were goin’ to ask me?”