Doctor Bontius reflected a moment, and then said:  “There are eyes that cannot endure a glare of light, and perhaps certain tones may seem unbearable to irritated ears.  Fran Van der Werff, you have been kept waiting a long time, please follow me.”

It had grown dark.  The curtains of the sick-room were lowered and a small lamp, burning behind a screen, shed but a feeble light.

The doctor approached the bed, felt Henrica’s pulse, said a few words in a low tone to prepare her for her visitor, and then took the lamp to see how the invalid looked.

Maria now beheld a pale face with regular outline, whose dark eyes, in their size and lustre, formed a striking contrast to the emaciated cheeks and sunken features of the sick girl.

After old Sister Gonzaga had restored the lamp to its former place, the physician said: 

“Excellent!  Now, Sister, go and change the bandage on your arm and lie down.”  Then he beckoned Maria to approach.

Henrica’s face made a strange impression upon the burgomaster’s wife.  She thought her beautiful, but the large eyes and firmly-shut lips seemed peculiar, rather than attractive.  Yet she instantly obeyed the physician’s summons, approached the bed, said kindly that she had been glad to come to stay with her a short time, and asked what she desired.

At these words, Henrica raised herself and with a sigh of relief, exclaimed: 

“That does me good!  Thanks, Doctor.  That’s a human voice again.  If you want to please me, Frau Van der Werff keep on talking, no matter what you say.  Please come and sit down here.  With Sister Gonzaga’s hands, your voice, and the doctor’s—­yes, I will say with Doctor Bontius’ candor, it won’t be difficult to recover entirely.”

“Good, good,” murmured the physician.  “Kind Sister Gonzaga’s injuries are not serious and she will stay with you, but when it is time for you to sleep, you will be moved elsewhere.  You can remain here an hour, Frau Van der Werff, but that will be enough for to-day.  I’ll go to your house and send the servant for you with a lantern.”

When the two ladies were left alone together, Maria said: 

“You set great value on the sound of voices; so do I, perhaps more than is desirable.  True, I have never had any serious illness—­”

“This is my first one too,” replied Henrica, “but I know now what it is to be compelled to submit to everything we don’t like, and feel with two-fold keenness everything that is repulsive.  It is better to die than suffer.”

“Your aunt is dead,” said Maria sympathizingly.

“She died early this morning.  We had little in common save the tie of blood.”

“Are your parents no longer living?”

“Only my father; but what of that?”

He will rejoice over your recovery; Doctor Bontius says you will soon be perfectly well.”

“I think so too,” replied Henrica confidently, and then said softly, without heeding Maria’s presence:  “There is one beautiful thing.  When I am well again, I shall once more—­Do you practise music?”