That moon, lately risen, was gazing full and mild upon her: floating in deep blue space, it watched her unclouded.
"Then it is not morning? I am not at the cottage? Who is this?—I see a shape at my bedside."
"It is myself—it is your friend—your nurse—your. Lean your head on my shoulder: collect yourself." (In a lower tone.) "Oh God, take pity! Give her life, and me strength! Send me courage—teach me words!"
Some minutes passed in silence. The patient lay mute and passive in the trembling arms—on the throbbing bosom of the nurse.
"I am better now," whispered Caroline, at last, "much better—I feel where I am: this is Mrs. Pryor near me: I was dreaming—I talk when I wake up from dreams: people often do in illness. How fast your heart beats, ma'am! Do not be afraid."
"It is not fear, child; only a little anxiety, which will pass. I have brought you some tea, Cary; your uncle made it himself. You know he says he can make a better cup of tea than any housewife can. Taste it. He is concerned to hear that you eat so little: he would be glad if you had a better appetite."
"I am thirsty: let me drink."
She drank eagerly.
"What o'clock is it, ma'am?" she asked.
"Past nine."
