"Yes, you look very tired," was Fay's unconscious answer; "but you will soon get rested with this lovely air." And then she kissed her affectionately, and went up the beach with her old elastic step, and Margaret watched her sadly until she was out of sight.
"She is sweet and good, but he does not love her yet," she said to herself; "but it will come, it must come in time."
Fay drove happily home, and was met at the lodge gates by the good news that Sir Hugh had had an hour or two's refreshing sleep, and that Dr. Conway, as well as Dr. Martin, were quite satisfied with the progress he had made.
"Oh, could it be quite true?" Fay asked, when she reached the Hall.
Yes, it was quite true the fever had abated. Sir Hugh's wonderful strength and vitality had triumphed at last, and the doctors soon announced that he was out of danger.
There were still days of weary waiting for Fay before it was pronounced safe for her to enter her husband's sickroom; but at last the day came, and one sweet spring evening, Hugh waking up from a brief doze, felt tears falling on his forehead, and saw Fay leaning over him. He was too weak even to put out his hand, but a faint smile came to his lips. "My Wee Wifie," Fay heard him say, but the next moment the smile had died away into sadness.
Be with me, love, when weak and worn, My life chord vibrates to and fro; When with the flood-tide's backward flow, My soul stands waiting to be gone.
And let me, with my failing hand, Hold fast to that I love so well, Till thine clasps but an empty shell, Amid the drift-weed on the sand.
Be with me that my closing eyes In that last hour may seek thy face, Thine image so can none displace, But soar with me through yonder skies.
"But they were not out of the wood yet," as Mrs. Heron observed to Ellerton.
When, he had reached a certain point Sir Hugh failed to make any further progress.
The London physician, Dr. Conway, frankly owned that Sir Hugh's case completely baffled his medical skill and experience.
Just when they had least expected it the fever had abated, and he had begun to amend, and now he as steadily refused to get well.
Day after day he lay in an extremity of weakness that was pitiable to witness; and ever, as time went on, seemed sinking slowly from sheer inanition and exhaustion. After all there must be some strange mischief at work, he said; but Dr. Martin was of a different opinion.