“O Doctor, let me thank you for such words.”

And Mrs. Floyd caught my arm with an eager movement.

“I speak soberly, madam, and from observation and reflection.  And I trust to see Delia live and triumph over her enemies.”

“Won’t you talk with the Squire, Doctor?” She still grasped my arm.  “He will not hear a word from me in favor of Delia.  Mr. Dewey has completely blinded him.”

“Wait patiently, Mrs. Floyd,” said I, in a tone of encouragement.  “Your daughter is not without friends.  There are those upon her side, who have the will and the power to defend her; and they will defend her, I believe successfully.”

A sigh fluttered through the room, causing us both to turn quickly towards the bed on which Mrs. Dewey was lying.  Her lips were moving slightly; but no change appeared on her death-like face.  I laid my fingers upon her wrist, and searched for her pulse.  It was very low and thread-like; but with more vitality than on the occasion of my first visit to her in the morning.

“The signs are favorable.”

Mrs. Floyd did not respond.  She was looking at her daughter with an expression of unutterable grief upon her countenance.

I did not attempt to give medicine, but left unerring nature to do her own work.

Mrs. Dewey did not again look upon the faces of her dead children.  They were buried ere her mind awoke to any knowledge of passing events.  I was at the funeral, and closely observed her husband.  He appeared very sober, and shed some tears at the grave, when the little coffins were lowered together into the earth.

It was a week before Mrs. Dewey was clearly conscious of external things.  I visited her every day, watching, with deep interest, her slow convalescence.  It was plain, as her mind began to recover its faculties, that the memory of a sad event had faded; and I was anxious for the effect, when this painful remembrance was restored.

One day I found her sitting up in her room.  She smiled feebly as I came in, and said: 

“Doctor, am I never going to get well?  It seems like an age since I became sick.”

“You are getting on finely,” I answered, in a cheerful way, sitting down by her and taking her hand, which was wasted and shadowy.

“I don’t know about that, Doctor,” she said.

“What makes me so weak?  I’ve no more strength than a babe.  And that reminds me of a frightful dream I had.”  And her countenance changed.

“A dream?” I queried.

“Yes; I thought Aggy and Lu were both dead!  I saw them laid out, cold and white as statues, just as plainly as I see you now.”

She stopped suddenly, an expression of fear going over her face—­then looked at me in a strange, questioning way.

“Doctor”—­she leaned towards me, with lips apart, and eyes full of a sudden, wild alarm.  I laid my hand upon her, and said: 

“You have been very ill for some time, Mrs. Dewey, and are too weak to bear excitement.  Don’t let mere dreams disturb you.”