“There is certainly a possibility that the stupor may pass off for a time,” the doctor said, “but, my dear madam, for your sake I cannot wish it.  You must be content to know that there is no pain or distress attending this state, and that it is by far the best for you and for him.”

He went up to the bed and gently touched Christian’s hand.  It was quite powerless and chilly, but at the touch he opened his eyes, and seemed dimly to recognize his visitor.  One or two questions were asked, and answered as if in a dream; then the weary eyes closed again, and all around seemed forgotten.

The doctor gave some slight directions and then left; but to Mrs. Bellairs he said,

“It is nearly over.  Mrs. Costello will stay to-night, but probably before morning you will be able to get her away.”

They went out together; but an hour later Mrs. Bellairs came back to wait, lest in the night the two who watched upstairs might want a friend at hand.  The jailer’s wife sent her husband to bed, and making a bright fire, sat up with her guest as they had previously agreed.

Night wore on, however, and all remained still and undisturbed.  About midnight Christian’s doze deepened into a sound sleep, and Lucia too, sitting in the warmth of the store, slept in spite of herself.  For nearly an hour the room was so still that Mrs. Costello could count every tick of her watch, and every change in the flickering sound of the wood fire. She had no inclination to sleep.

For this one hour she felt herself a wife like other wives—­a wife and mother,—­watching her husband and her child.  It was still a mystery to her how this could be, but the feeling had its own exquisite sweetness, how dearly soever that sweetness was bought; and she drank it in greedily.  Now and then she rose softly to assure herself that all was well, and each time the even breath and calm face spoke of rest that might have been life-giving, if there had yet been in the worn-out frame the faintest power of revival.

But between one and two o’clock Christian awoke.  He did not move, but his wife, looking at him, saw his eyes open, and an indescribable difference in his aspect which made her heart leap, for she knew that his mind had awakened also, for that one last recognition that she had so longed for.  She said nothing, however, but brought a few spoonfuls of wine and gave to him.  He took them, watching her silently all the while, but not seeming fully to recognize her until she came and knelt down at his side, taking his cold hand in hers.  Then he smiled, and turning a little towards her, said “Mary!”

She could not answer, but she bent her head down for a moment upon the hand she held.

“You have been here before?” he went on.  “I remember seeing you.  You have forgiven me, then?”

“Quite.  Think of other things now.”

“I can’t think of anything except that I must be dying, and that I am glad you are here.”