Then all was darkness, the crisis had come. He
slept in oblivious ease--it was long; and awaking, the fever was gone.
There was a gentle, sweet, sorrowful face before him--their eyes met;
for a moment only he looked--it was she whom he had met and parted from
without a hope of ever meeting again when robed as the Indian he stood
upon the steamer's deck and waved farewell forever. He reached forth
his hand. She took it and approached, saying, "You are better, and will
soon be well." He could only press her hand as the tears flooded over
his eyes. With a kerchief white as innocence it was wiped away and the
hand that held it laid gently on his brow--that touch thrilled his
every nerve.
Days went by, and the convalescent was amid the shrubs and flowers of
the beautifully ornamented grounds. When he came to the maiden reading
in the shade of a great pecan-tree, she bid him to a seat.
"Do you remember our first meeting?" he asked.
"Here, on your sick-bed, yes; you were, oh! so sick, and I little
thought you would ever leave it alive. You called in your delirium your
mother and your father, and in the frenzy of your mind you saw them by
you; how my heart was pained, and how I prayed for you, in my chamber,
here, and everywhere--and now you are well, only weak.
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