"If Arthur should, wouldn't it be a trial to Miss Deane to have to dine in her own room?" exclaimed Ella, with a gleeful laugh.
"Why, what do you mean?" asked Zoe, opening her eyes wide with surprise.
"That she would not have the slightest objection to becoming Mrs. Dr.
Conly."
"But you don't think there's any danger?" queried Zoe, by no means pleased with the idea of having the lady in question made a member of the family connection.
"No, and I certainly hope not. It wouldn't be I that would want to call her sister," returned Ella emphatically.
"I should think Art had sufficient penetration to see through her," said Zoe. "But no; on second thoughts, I'm not so sure; for Ned will have it that it's more than half my imagination when I say she sneers at me."
"That's too bad," said Ella. "But Art is older than Ned by some years, and has probably had more opportunity to study character."
"Yes," replied Zoe, speaking with some hesitation, not liking to admit that any one was wiser than her husband, little as she was inclined to own herself in the wrong when he differed from her.
CHAPTER V.
"Is there no constancy in earthly things?
No happiness in us, but what must alter?"
Zoe drove over to the village in good season to meet the last train for that day, coming from the direction in which Edward had gone, ardently hoping he might be on board.
The carriage was brought to a stand-still near the depot; and she eagerly watched the arrival of the train, and scanned the little crowd of passengers who alighted from it.
But Edward was not among them, and now it was quite certain that she could not see him before another day.
Just as she reached that conclusion, a telegram was handed her:—
"Can't be home before to-morrow or next day. Will return as soon as possible. E. TRAVILLA."
To the girl-wife the message seemed but cold and formal. "So different from the way he talks to me when he is not vexed or displeased, as he hardly ever is," she whispered to herself with starting tears during the solitary drive back to Ion. "I know it's silly—telegrams can't be loving and kind: it wouldn't do, of course—but I can't help feeling as if he is angry with me, because there's not a bit of love in what he says. And, oh, dear! to think he may be away two nights, and I'm longing so to tell him how sorry I am for being so cross this morning, and before that, too, and to have him take me in his arms and kiss me, and say all is right between us, that I don't know how to wait a single minute!"
She reached home in a sad and tearful mood. Ella, however, proved so entertaining and mirth-provoking a companion, that the evening passed quickly, and by no means unpleasantly.
But when the two had retired to their respective apartments, Zoe felt very lonely, and said to herself that she would rather have Edward there, even silent and displeased, as he had been for several days past, than be without him.
Her last thought before falling asleep, and her first on awaking next morning, were of him.
"Oh, dear!" she sighed half aloud, as she opened her eyes, and glanced round the room, "what shall I do if he doesn't come to-day? I'll have to stand it, of course; but what does a woman do who has no husband?" And for the first time she began to feel some sympathy for Miss Deane, as a lonely maiden lady.
She thought a good deal about her unwelcome guest while attending to the duties of the toilet, and determined to treat her with all possible kindness during the remainder of her enforced stay at Ion. So, meeting, on her way to the breakfast-room, the old negress who had been given charge of Miss Deane through the night, she stopped her, and asked how her patient was.
"Jes' pow'ful cross dis hyar mawnin', Miss Zoe," was the reply, in a tone of disgust. "Dar isn't one ob de fambly dat would be makin' half de fuss ef dey'd sprained bofe dey's ankles. Doan ye go nigh her, honey, fear she bite yo' head off."
"Indeed I sha'n't, Aunt Phillis, if there's any danger of that," laughed Zoe. "But as she can't jump up and run after me, I think I shall be quite safe if I don't go within arm's-length of her sofa."
"She's pow'ful cross," repeated Aunt Phillis: "she done gone call dis chile up time an' again fru de night; an' when I ax her, 'Whar yo' misery at?' she say, 'In my ankle, ob c'ose, yo' ole fool you! Cayn't yo' hab nuff sense to change de dressin'?'"
"Who is that has been so polite and complimentary to you, Aunt Phillis?" cried a merry voice in their rear.
Ella was descending the stairway at whose foot they stood, as they perceived, on turning at the sound of her voice.
"Good-morning, cousin: how bright and well you are looking!" said Zoe.
"Just as I feel. And how are you, Mrs. Travilla? I trust you did not spend the night in crying over Ned's absence?" was the gay rejoinder.
"No, not nearly all of it," returned Zoe, catching her spirit of fun.
"Mawnin', Miss Ella," said the old nurse, dropping a courtesy. "'Twas de lady what sprain her foot yisteday I was talkin' bout to Miss Zoe."
"Ah! how is she?"
"I doan' t'ink she gwine die dis day, Miss Ella," laughed the nurse, "she so pow'ful cross; and dey do say folks is dat way when dey's gittin' bettah."
"Yes, I have always heard it was a hopeful sign, if not an agreeable one," Ella remarked, "Was that the breakfast-bell I heard just now?"
"Yes," said Zoe. "I hope you feel ready to do justice to your meal?"
As they seated themselves at the table, Zoe, glancing toward Edward's vacant chair, remarked, with a sigh, that it seemed very lonely to sit down without him.
"Well, now," said Ella, "I think it's quite nice to take a meal occasionally without the presence of anybody of the masculine gender."
"Perhaps that is because you have never been married," said Zoe.
"Perhaps so," returned her cousin, laughing; "yet I don't think that can be all that ails me, for I have heard married women express the same opinion quite frequently. What shall we do with ourselves to-day, Zoe? I've no notion of devoting myself exclusively to Miss Deane's entertainment, especially if she is really as cross as reported."
"No, indeed! I couldn't bear to let you, even if you were willing," replied Zoe with decision. "I consented to your taking my place in that, only because I supposed you found her agreeable; while to me she is any thing else."
"Suppose we call on her together, after a little, and let the length of our stay depend upon the enjoyment our presence seems to afford her," suggested Ella.
"Agreed," said Zoe. "Then I will supply her with plenty of reading-matter, which, as she professes to be so very intellectual, ought to entertain her far better than we can. Shall we ride after that?"
"Yes, and take a promenade on the verandas. We'll have to take our exercise in those ways, as the roads are not yet fit for walking."
"Yes," said Zoe; "but I hope that by afternoon they will be good enough for driving; as I mean to drive over to the depot to meet the late train, hoping to find Ned on it."
"Don't expect him till to-morrow," said Ella.
"Why not?" queried Zoe, looking as if she could hardly endure the thought.
"Because, in that case, your disappointment, if you have one, will be agreeable."
"Yes; but, on the other hand, I should lose all the enjoyment of looking forward through the whole day, to seeing him this evening. Following your plan, I shouldn't have half so happy a day as if I keep to my own."
"Ah! that's an entirely new view of the case," Ella said in her merry, laughing tones.
Miss Deane did not seem to enjoy their society, and they soon withdrew from her room; Zoe having done all in her power to provide her with every comfort and amusement available in her case.
"I'm glad that's over," sighed Zoe, when they were alone again. "And now for our ride, if you are ready, Ella. I ordered my pony for myself, and mamma's for you; and I see they are at the door."
"Then let us don our riding-habits, and be off at once," said Ella.
"Where are we going?" she asked, as they cantered down the avenue.
"To the village, if you like. I want to call at the post-office."
"In hopes of finding a note from Ned, I suppose. I don't believe there can be one there that would bring you later news than yesterday's telegram. But I have no objection to making sure, and would as soon ride in that direction as any other."
Nothing from Edward was found at the office; and the young wife seemed much disappointed, till Ella suggested that that looked as if he expected to be at home before night.
It was a cheering idea to Zoe: she brightened up at once, and in the afternoon drove over the same road, feeling almost certain Edward would be on the incoming train, due about the time she would reach the village, or rather at the time she had planned to be there. Ella, who had asked to accompany her, was slow with her dressing, taxing Zoe's patience pretty severely by thus causing ten minutes' detention.
"Come, now, don't be worried: it won't kill Ned to have to wait ten or fifteen minutes," she said laughingly, as she stepped into the carriage, and seated herself by Zoe's side.
"No, I dare say not," returned the latter, trying to speak with perfect pleasantness of tone and manner; "and he isn't one of the impatient ones, who can never bear to be kept waiting a minute, like myself," she added with a smile. "Now, Uncle Ben, drive pretty fast, so that we won't be so very far behind time."
"Fas' as I kin widout damagin' de hosses, Miss Zoe," answered the old coachman. "Marso Ed'ard allus tole me be keerful ob dem, and de roads am putty bad sence de big storm."
Zoe glanced at her watch as they entered the village. "Drive directly to the depot, Uncle Ben," she said. "It's fully fifteen minutes past the time for the train to be in."
"I ain't heard de whistle, Miss Zoe," he remarked, as he turned his horses' heads in the desired direction.
"No, nor have I," said Ella; "and we ought to have heard it fully five minutes before it got in. There may have been a detention. That is nothing very unusual," she hastened to add, as she saw that Zoe had suddenly grown very pale.
The carriage drew up before the door of the depot; and the girls leaned from its windows, sending eager, searching glances from side to side, and up and down the track.
No train was in sight, and the depot seemed strangely silent and deserted.
"Oh!" cried Zoe, "what can be the matter?"
"I suppose the train must have got in some time ago,—perhaps before we left Ion," replied Ella, in a re-assuring tone; "and all the passengers have dispersed to their homes, or wherever they were going."
"No, there could not have been time for all that," Zoe responded, in accents full of anxiety and alarm.
"Our watches may be much too slow," suggested Ella, trying to re-assure both herself and her cousin, yet trembling with apprehension as she spoke.
"No, it isn't possible that they and all the timepieces in the house could be so far from correct," said Zoe despairingly.
"Dar doan' 'pear to be nobody 'bout dis hyar depot," remarked Uncle Ben reflectively; "but I reckon dar's somebody comin' to 'splain de mattah. Wha's de 'casion ob dis mos' onusual state ob t'ings?" he added, as a woman, who been watching the carriage and its occupants, the open door of a neighboring house, came miming in their direction.
"What de mattah, Aunt Rhoda?" he queried, as she reached the side of the vehicle, almost breathless with excitement and exertion.
"Why, Uncle Ben, dar—dar's been a accident to de kyars, dey say, an' dey's all broke up, and de folks roun' here is all"—
"Where? where?" exclaimed Ella, while Zoe sank back against the cushions, quite unable to speak for the moment.
"Dunno, Miss," was the reply; "but," pointing up the road, "it's out dat way, 'bout a mile, I reckon. Yo see, de kyars was a comin' fas' dis way, and 'nudder ole injine whiskin' 'long dat way, and dey bofe comes togedder wid a big crash, breakin' de kyars, and de injines bofe of em, till dey's good for nuffin' but kin'lin' wood; and de folks what's ridin' in de kyars is all broke up too, dey says; and de doctahs and body"—
"Edward!" gasped Zoe. "Drive us there, Uncle Ben, drive with all your might! O Edward, my husband, my husband!" and she burst into hysterical weeping.
Ella threw her arms about her. "Don't, dear Zoe, oh, don't cry so! He may not be hurt. He may not have been on that train at all."
Ben had already turned and whipped up his horses, and now they dashed along the road at a furious rate.
Zoe dropped her head on Ella's shoulder, answering only with tears and sobs and moans, till the carriage came to a sudden stand-still.
"We's got dar, Miss Zoe," said Uncle Ben, in a subdued tone full of grief and sympathy.
She lifted her head; and her eye instantly fell upon a little group, scarcely a yard distant, consisting of several men, among whom she recognized Dr. Conly, gathered about an apparently insensible form lying on the ground.
Ella and Ben saw it too. She suddenly caught the reins from his hands: he sprang from the carriage, and, lifting Zoe in his strong arms as if she had been but a child, set her on her feet, and supported her to the side of the prostrate man; the little crowd respectfully making way for her, at the words spoken by Ben in a voice half choked with emotion, "Hit's Marse Ed'ard's wife, gen'lemen."
It was Edward lying there motionless, and with a face like that of a corpse.
With an agonized cry, Zoe dropped on her knees at his side, and pressed her lips passionately to his.
There was no response, no movement, not the quiver of an eyelid; and she lifted her grief-stricken face to that of the doctor, with a look of anguished inquiry in the beautiful eyes fit to move a heart of stone.
"I do not despair of him yet, dear cousin Zoe," Arthur said in a low, moved tone. "I lave found no external injury, and it may be that he is only stunned."
The words had scarcely left his lips when Edward drew a sighing breath, and opened his eyes, glancing up into Zoe's face bending over Mm in deepest, tenderest solicitude.
"Ah, love! is it you?" he murmured faintly, and with a smile. "Where am
I? What has happened?"
"O Ned! dear, dear Ned! I thought you were killed!" she sobbed, covering his face with kisses and tears.
"There has been an accident, and you got a blow that stunned you," answered the doctor; "but I think you are all right now, or will be soon."
"An accident!" Edward repeated, with a bewildered look, and putting his hand to his head. "What was it?"
"A collision on the railroad," Arthur said. "There is an ambulance here: I think I will put you in it, and have you taken home at once. 'Tis only a few miles, and not a rough road."
"Yes, yes: home is much the best place," he sighed, again putting his hand to his head.
"Are you in pain?" asked Arthur.
"Not much, but I feel strangely confused. I should like to be taken home as soon as possible. But not to the neglect of any one who may have been more seriously hurt than I," he added, feebly raising his head to look about him.
"There are none such," Arthur answered. "You perhaps remember that the cars were nearly empty of passengers: no lives were lost and no one, I think, worse hurt than yourself."
"And I?" returned Edward, in a tone of inquiry.
"Have escaped without any broken bones, and I trust will be all right in a few days."
"O Ned! how glad I am it is no worse!" sobbed Zoe, clinging to his hand, while the tears rolled fast down her cheeks.
"Yes, little wife," he said, gazing lovingly into her eyes.
"There, I positively forbid any more talking," said Arthur, with a mixture of authority and playfulness. "Here is the ambulance. Help me to lift him in, men," to the by-standers. "And you, cousin Zoe, get into your carriage, and drive on behind it, or ahead if you choose."
"Can't I ride in the ambulance beside him?" she asked, almost imploringly.
"No, no: you will both be more comfortable In doing as I have directed."
"Then, please go with him yourself," she entreated.
"I shall do so, certainly," he answered, motioning her away, then stooping to assist the others in lifting the injured man.
Zoe would not stir till she had seen Edward put into the ambulance, and made as comfortable for his ride home as circumstances would permit. Then, as the vehicle moved slowly off, she hurried to her carriage.
Ben helped her in, sprang into his own seat, and, as he took the reins from Ella, Zoe gave the order, "Home now, Uncle Ben, keeping as close behind the ambulance as you can."
"Oh, don't, Zoe! you oughtn't to!" expostulated Ella, perceiving that her cousin was crying violently behind her veil. "I don't think Ned is very badly hurt. Didn't you hear Arthur say so?"
"He only expressed such a hope: he didn't say certainly," sobbed Zoe. "And when people are in danger, doctors always try to hide it from their friends."
"Arthur is perfectly truthful," asserted Ella, with some warmth. "He may keep his opinions to himself at times, but he never builds people up with false hopes. So cheer up, coz," she added, squeezing Zoe's hand affectionately.
"I know that what you say of cousin Arthur is all true," sobbed Zoe; "but I could see he had fears as well as hopes: and—and—Ned doesn't seem a bit like himself; he has such a dazed look, as if not quite in his right mind."
"But he knew you and Art; and it is to be expected that a man would feel dazed after such a shock as he must have had."
"Yes, of course. Oh, I'm afraid he's dreadfully, dreadfully hurt, and will never get over it!"
"Still," returned Ella, "try to hope for the best. Don't you think that is the wiser plan always?"
"I suppose so," said Zoe, laughing and crying hysterically; "but I can't be wise to-night; indeed, I never can."
CHAPTER VI.
"And, if division come, it soon is past,
Too sharp, too strange an agony to last."
MRS. NORTON.
Christine and Aunt Phillis, who had been left in charge of Miss Deane, had had a sore trial of patience in waiting upon her, humoring her whims, listening to her fretting and complaints, and trying to soothe and entertain her. She was extremely irritable, and seemed determined not to be pleased with any thing they could do for her.
"Where is your mistress?" she asked at length. "Pretty manners she has, to leave a suffering guest to the sole care of servants."
"Yes, Miss, Ise alluz t'ought Miss Zoe hab pretty manners and a pretty face," replied Aunt Phillis; "but dere is ladies what habn't none, an' doan' git pleased wid nuffin' nor nobody, an eayn't stan' no misery nowhars 'bout deirselves, but jes' keep frettin' and concessantly displainin' 'bout dis t'ing and dat, like dey hasn't got nuffin' to be thankful for."
"Impudence!" muttered Miss Deane, her eyes flashing angrily. Then bidding her attendants be quiet, she settled herself for a nap.
She was waked by a slight bustle in the house, accompanied by sounds as if a number of men were carrying a heavy burden through the entrance-hall, and up the wide stairway leading to the second story.
"What's the matter? What's going on? Has any thing happened?" she asked, starting up to a sitting posture.
Christine had risen to her feet, pale and trembling, and stood listening intently.
"I must go and see," she said, and hurried from the room, Aunt Phillis shambling after her in haste and trepidation.
"Stay!" cried Miss Deane: "don't leave me alone. What are you thinking of?"
But they were already out of hearing. "I was never so shamefully treated anywhere as I am here," muttered the angry lady, sinking back upon her pillows. "I'll leave this house to-morrow, if it is a possible thing, and never darken its doors again."
Listening again, she thought she heard sounds of grief, sobbing and wailing, groans and sighs.
She was by no means deficient in curiosity, and it was exceedingly trying to be compelled to lie there in doubt and suspense.
The time seemed very much longer than it really was before Aunt Phillis came back, sobbing, and wiping her eyes on her apron.
"What is the matter?" asked Miss Deane impatiently.
"Dere's—dere's been a awful commission on de railroad," sobbed Aunt
Phillis; "and Marse Ed'ard's 'most killed."
"Oh, dreadful!" cried Miss Deane. "Have they sent for his mother?"
Aunt Phillis only shook her head doubtfully, and burst into fresh and louder sobs.
"Most killed! Dear me!" sighed the lady. "And he was so young and handsome! It will quite break his mother's heart, I suppose. But she'll get over it. It takes a vast deal of grief to kill."
"P'raps Marse Ed'ard ain't gwine ter die," said the old nurse, checking her sobs. "Dey does say Doctah Arthur kin 'most raise de dead."
"Well, I'm sure I hope Mr. Travilla won't die," responded Miss Deane, "or prove to be permanently injured in any way.—Ah, Christine!" as the latter re-entered the room: "what is all this story about a railroad accident? Is Mr. Travilla killed?"
"No, no, he not killed," replied Christine, in her broken English. "How bad hurt, I not know to say; but not killed."
Meantime Edward had been taken to his room, and put comfortably to bed; while Zoe, seated in her boudoir, waited anxiously for the doctor's report of his condition.
Ella was with her, and now and then tried to speak a comforting word, which Zoe scarcely seemed to hear. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, listening intently to catch every sound from the room where her injured husband lay. She looked pale and anxious, and occasionally a tear would roll quickly down her cheek.
At last the door opened, and Arthur stepped softly across the room to her side.
"Cheer up, little cousin," he said kindly. "Edward seems to be doing very well; and if you will be a good, quiet little woman, you may go and sit by his side."
"Oh, thank you! I'll try," she said, starting up at once. "But mayn't I talk to him at all?"
"Not much to-night," was the reply; "not more than seems absolutely necessary; and you must be particularly careful not to say any thing that would have the least tendency to excite him."
"Oh, then he must be very, very ill,—terribly injured!" she cried, with a burst of tears and sobs.
"That does not necessarily follow," Arthur said, taking her hand, and holding it in a kindly pressure. "But you must be more composed, or," playfully, "I shall be compelled to exert my authority so far as to forbid you to go to him."
"Oh, no, no! don't do that!" she cried pleadingly. "I'll be calm and quiet; indeed, indeed I will."
"That's right," he said. "I think I may venture to try you."
"But won't you please tell me just how much you think he is hurt?" she pleaded, clinging to his hand, and looking up beseechingly into his face.
"My dear little cousin," he said in a tenderly sympathizing tone, "I wish to do all in my power to relieve your anxiety, but am as yet in some doubt myself as to the extent of his injuries. He is a good deal shaken and bruised; but, as I have said before, there are no broken bones; and, unless there should be some internal injury which I have not yet discovered, he is likely to recover entirely in a few days or weeks."
"But you are not sure? Oh! how could I ever bear it if he should"—she broke off with a burst of violent weeping.
He led her to a seat, for she seemed hardly able to stand: her whole frame was shaking with emotion.
"Try not to meet trouble half way, little cousin," he said gently. "'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' and 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' It is God's promise to all who put their trust in him, and cannot fail; all his promises are yea and amen in Christ Jesus."
"Yes, I know," she said, making a strong effort to control herself. "And you do hope Ned will soon be well?"
"I certainly do," he responded in cheerful accents. "And now, if you will wipe away your tears, and promise to be very good and quiet, I will take you to him. He was asking for you when I left the room."
She gave the desired promise, and he led her to the bedside.
"I have brought you your wife, Ned," he said in a quiet tone, "and mean to leave her with you for a while; but you are to be a good boy, and not indulge in much chatter with her."
"We'll be good: I'll answer for her, and myself too," Edward returned, with a tenderly affectionate smile up into Zoe's face, as she bent over him, and touched her lips to his forehead.
She dared not trust herself to speak, but silently put her hand in his, dropped on her knees by the bedside, and laid her pretty head on the pillow on which his rested.
"My own darling!" he murmured, softly pressing the hand he held: "my own precious little wife!"
Once more Arthur enjoined quiet, then went out, and left them alone together.
He paid a professional visit to Miss Deane, satisfied her curiosity in regard to Edward's injuries, and learned with pleasure that she was quite resolved to go home the next morning.
"Of course Mrs. Travilla should give all her attention to her husband now," she remarked; "and I shall be only in the way. One disabled person is quite enough to have in a house at one time. So if you, doctor, will be so kind as to have the ambulance sent out for me directly after breakfast, I'll be much obliged."
"I will do so," he said. "The journey will do you no harm, and you will probably be better cared for and happier in your own home than here, under the circumstances."
Zoe's poor heart was longing to pour itself out into her husband's ear in words of contrition, penitence, and love; and only the fear of injuring him enabled her to restrain her feelings, and remain calm and quiet, kneeling there close by his side, with her hand in his. She couldn't rest till she told him how very, very sorry she was for the petulance of the past few days, and especially for the cold rejection of his invitation to accompany him on his drive to Roselands, how firmly resolved never again to give him like cause to be displeased with her, and how dearly she loved him.
But she must refrain, from fear of exciting him: she must wait till all danger from that was past.
It was hard; yet there was strong consolation in the certainty that his dear love was still hers. She read it in his eyes, as they gazed fondly into hers; felt it in the tender pressure of his hand; heard it in the tones of his voice, as he called her his "darling, his own precious little wife."
Yet she was tormented with the fear that his accident had affected his mind and memory for the time, so that he had forgotten the unkindness of the morning; and that, when returning health and vigor should recall the facts to his remembrance, he would again treat her with the coldness and displeasure merited by her behavior.
"But," she comforted herself, "if he does, it will not last long: he is sure to forgive and love me as soon as I tell him how sorry I am."
She did not want to leave him to take either food or rest; but Arthur insisted that she should go down to tea, and later to bed, leaving Edward in his care; and she finally yielded to his persuasions, and exertion of medical authority.
She objected that it was quite useless to go to bed; she was positively sure she could not sleep a wink: but her head had scarcely touched the pillow before she fell into a profound slumber, for she was quite worn out with anxiety and grief.
It was broad daylight when she woke. The events of yesterday flashed instantly upon her mind; and she sprang from her bed and began dressing in haste.
She must learn as speedily as possible how Edward was; not worse, surely, for Arthur had promised faithfully to call her at once if there should be any unfavorable change during the night. Still, a light tap at the door made her start, and turn pale; and she opened it with a trembling hand.
Ella stood there with a bright, smiling countenance. "Good-morning, coz," she said gayly. "I bring you good news,—two pieces of it. Ned is almost himself again; Arthur is entirely satisfied that there is no serious injury,—internal or otherwise; and Miss Deane has already set out for her home, leaving me to give you her adieus. Now are you not happy?"
"Indeed, indeed I am!" cried Zoe, dancing about the room in ecstasy, her eyes shining, and her cheeks flushing with joy.
"May I go to him at once?" she asked, stopping short, with an eager, questioning look.
"Yes. Art says you may, and Ned is asking for you. How fond he is of you, Zoe! though, I think, no fonder than you are of him."
"I don't deserve it," responded Zoe, with unwonted humility, answering the first part of the remark.
"I don't see but you do," said Ella. "Can I help you with your dressing?
I know you are in a hurry to get to him."
"Thank you. I don't think you can, but I'll be done in five minutes."
Edward lay watching for her coming, listening for the sound of her light footsteps, and, as she opened the door, looked up, and greeted her with a tenderly affectionate smile.
"O Ned! dear, dear Ned!" she cried, hastening to the bedside; "how like yourself you look again!"
"And feel, too, love," he said, drawing her down till their lips met in a long kiss.
Arthur had stepped out on her entrance, and they were quite alone together.
"God has been very good to us, darling, in sparing us to each other,"
Edward said, in low, moved tones.
"Oh, yes, yes!" she sobbed. "And I didn't deserve it; for I was so cross to you day before yesterday, when you asked me to go with you: and I'd been cross for days before that. Can you, will you, forgive me, dear Ned?"
"I have not been blameless, and we will exchange forgiveness," he said, drawing her closer, till her head rested against his breast.
"It is so good in you to say that," she sobbed. "Oh, if you had been killed, as I thought for one minute you were, I could never have had an hour of peace or comfort in this world! Those unkind words would have been the last I ever spoke to you; and I should never have been able to forget them, or the sad look that your face must have worn as you turned away. I didn't see it, for I had rudely turned my back to you; but I could imagine it: for I knew you must have been hurt, and grieved too."
"So I was, little wife," he said tenderly, and passing his hand caressingly over her hair and cheek: "but a few moments' honest retrospect showed me that I was not blameless, had not been as forbearing and affectionate in my treatment of my darling little wife, for the past few days, as I ought to have been; and I resolved to tell her so, on the first opportunity."
"O Ned! I don't deserve such a kind, loving husband!" she sighed; "and you ought to have a great deal better wife."
"I am entirely satisfied with the one I have," lifting her hand to his lips. "There isn't a woman in the world I would exchange her for."
"But I often do and say things you don't approve," she murmured, with a regretful sigh.
"Yes; but have I not told you more than once, that I do not want a piece of perfection for my wife, lest there should be far too strong a contrast between her and myself?"
"But there wouldn't be," she asserted. "I don't believe there's another man in all the world quite so dear and good as my husband."
"Sweet flattery from your lips," he returned laughingly. "Now, dearest, go and eat your breakfast. I have had mine."
"Ned, do you know our tormentor is gone?" she asked, lifting her head, and looking into his eyes, with a glad light in her own.
"Yes, and am much relieved to know it," he replied. "And, dearest, she shall never come again, if I can prevent it."
CHAPTER VII.
"Tell me the old, old story."
"My dear Zoe! what a happy face!" was Ella's pleased exclamation, as the two met in the breakfast-room.
"Very bright, indeed!" said Arthur, who had come in with Zoe, smiling kindly upon her as he spoke.
"Because it reflects the light and joy in my heart," she returned. "Wouldn't it be strange if I were not happy in knowing that my husband is not seriously hurt? Oh, we have been so happy together, that I have often feared it could not last!"
"There seems every reasonable prospect that it will," Arthur said, as they seated themselves at the table. "You are both young and healthy, your tastes are congenial, and you have enough of this world's goods to enable you to live free from carking cares and exhausting labors."
Zoe was in so great haste to return to Edward, that she could scarce refrain from eating her breakfast more rapidly than was consistent with either politeness toward her guests or a due regard for her own health: but she tried to restrain her impatience; and Arthur, who perceived and sympathized with it, exerted himself for her entertainment, telling amusing anecdotes, and making mirth-provoking remarks.
Ella, perceiving his designs, joined in, in the same strain. Zoe presently entered into their mood, and they seemed, as in fact they were, a light-hearted and happy little breakfast party; both Arthur and Ella feeling greatly relieved by the favorable change in their cousin, not for Zoe's sake alone, but also because of their own affection for him.
Edward no longer needed Arthur as nurse: indeed, Zoe claimed the right to a monopoly of the, to her, sweet task of waiting upon him, and attending to all his wants. So Arthur resigned in that capacity, but was to continue his visits as physician.
He and Ella returned to Roselands shortly after leaving the breakfast-table; and Zoe, in joyous, tender mood, took her place by her husband's bedside.
He welcomed her with a loving smile, taking her hand in his, and carrying it to his lips.
"Arthur has condemned me to lie here for a full week," he said. "It would seem a weary while in the prospect, but for the thought of having, through it all, the sweet companionship of my darling little wife."
"Dear Ned, how good in you to say so!" she murmured, kneeling beside the bed, and laying her cheek to his. "I don't believe there's another creature in the world that thinks my society of much account."
"If you are right in that, which I very much doubt," he said with a smile of incredulity, "it only shows their want of taste, and makes no difference to us, does it, love, since we are all the world to each other?"
"I am sure it makes no difference to me," she responded: "if you love, and are pleased with, me, it's very little I care what anybody else may think or say about me. But, oh! isn't it nice to be alone together again?"
"Very nice."
"And remember, you are to make all possible use of me,—as nurse, reader,—when you feel that you would like to listen to book or news-paper,—as amanuensis, every thing."
"Yes, dearest, I expect to employ you in all those capacities by and by; but at present, I want nothing but to have you sit by my side, and talk to me, while I hold your hand, and feast my eyes on the face that is to me the dearest in all the world."
At that, the pretty face was suffused with blushes and smiles. "I'm so happy! so very happy!" she murmured, stealing an arm round his neck. "It is such a change from yesterday, when for a little while, I—I thought you—were gone, and—and without my having had a chance to ask your forgiveness."
The sobs came thick and fast as she went on. "O Ned! dear, dear Ned! I—I don't mean ever to be cross to you again, especially when we are going to part even for an hour."
"No," he said, with emotion, and drawing her closer to him; "we should not have parted so; we had promised each other we would not; and I should have gone to you and made it up with you before leaving the house."
"It was all my fault," she sobbed; "and if—if you had been taken from me, I could never have had another happy moment."
"Thank God that we are spared to each other!" he said with fervent gratitude. "And now, dear wife, let us try to forget that there has been ever any coldness or clashing between us. Let us enjoy the present, and be as happy in each other as if no cloud, even the slightest, had ever come over our intercourse as husband and wife."
"Yes," she said. Then, lifting her face, and gazing earnestly into his, "How pale and exhausted you look!" she cried in alarm. "I have talked, and let you talk, too much and too excitingly. I'm afraid cousin Arthur will say I am but a poor sort of nurse. Now," withdrawing herself from his embrace, and gently re-arranging his pillows, and smoothing the bed-clothes, "shut your eyes, and try to sleep. I'll stay close beside you, and be as quiet as a mouse."
With a faint smile, he did as he was bidden; and she fulfilled her promise to the letter, watching beside him with love and solicitude for two hours, till his eyes again unclosed, and met hers, gazing so tenderly upon him, with an answering look of ardent affection.
"You have had a good nap, and look quite refreshed, dear," she said, bending over him, and softly stroking his hair with her little white hand.
"Yes; I feel much better," he said. "And you, love,—have you been sitting there all this time?"
"Of course I have," she answered gayly: "did you think I would break my word, or feel any desire to go away and leave you?"
"I know you to be the most devoted of nurses, when it is I who require your services," he returned, with a tenderly appreciative smile. "You are the best of little wives. But you must be very weary, and I want you now to go and take some exercise in the open air."
"Is that an order?" she asked playfully.
"Not yet," he returned, in the same tone; "but, if not obeyed as a request, it may become—something stronger."
"Well," she said laughing, "it won't hurt me if it does: you can't hurt me in that way any more; for do you know, Ned," and she bent lovingly over him, pressing a kiss upon his forehead, "I have become such a silly thing, that I actually enjoy obeying you,—when you don't order me as if you thought I wouldn't do as you wish, and you meant to force me to it."
"Forgive me, love, that I have ever done it in that spirit," he said remorsefully, and coloring deeply.
"Ned, I haven't any thing to forgive," she said, with sudden energy and warmth of affection.
"Then you will obey about the air and exercise?" he asked, returning to his playful tone.
"Presently, sir, when I have seen you eat something. It's time for that now, according to the doctor's directions."
She rang for refreshment, saw him take it, then left him for a short time in the care of old Aunt Phillis, while she donned riding hat and habit, mounted her pony, and flew over several miles of road and back again.
She seemed to bring a breath of fresh air with her when she returned to his side.
"My darling," he said, smiling up at her, "how the roses glow on your cheeks, and how bright your eyes are! Give me a kiss, and then sit down close by my side."
"I obey both orders most willingly," she said merrily, as she bent down and kissed him on lips and forehead and cheek, then took possession of the chair she had vacated on leaving the room.
"Now, sir, what next?"
"Move your chair round a trifle, so that I can have a better view of your face."
She smilingly obeyed. "There! does that satisfy your lordship?"
"Quite. Now talk to me."
"About what?"
"Any thing you please: the principal thing is to hear the music of your voice."
"Suppose I sing, then."
"Yes, yes!" eagerly; "that's just what I should enjoy. Let it be, 'I love to tell the story.'"
Zoe had a beautiful voice. Soft and sweet and clear it rose,—
"'I love to tell the story
Of unseen things above,
Of Jesus and his glory,
Of Jesus and his love.
I love to tell the story,
Because I know it's true:
It satisfies my longings
As nothing else can do.
"I love to tell the story:
'Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story,
Of Jesus and his love.
"I love to tell the story:
More wonderful it seems,
Than all the golden fancies
Of all our golden dreams.
I love to tell the story,
It did so much for me;
And that is just the reason
I tell it now to thee.
"I love to tell the story;
'Tis pleasant to repeat
What seems, each time I tell it,
More wonderfully sweet.
I love to tell the story,
For some have never heard
The message of salvation
From God's own Holy Word.
"I love to tell the story;
For those who know it best,
Seem hungering and thirsting
To hear it like the rest.
And when in scenes of glory,
I sing the new, new song,
'Twill be the old, old story,
That I have loved so long.'"
The last note died away, and for a moment there was silence in the room. Edward lay gazing into his wife's eyes with a look of sad, yearning tenderness.
"O Ned! why, why do you look so at me?" she asked, with a sudden burst of tears, and dropping her face on the pillow beside his. He had been holding her hand while she sang; he kept it still, and, laying his other one gently on her head, "Zoe, my darling," he said, in tones tremulous with emotion, "it is the one longing desire of my heart that you may learn the full sweetness of that old, old story. O love! sometimes the thought, 'What if my precious wife should miss heaven, and our union be only for time, and not for eternity,' sends so keen a pang to my heart, that I know not how to endure it."
"O Ned! surely I shall not miss it," she said, with a sob: "my father and mother were such good Christians; and you, my own husband, are so good too."
"Ah, my darling!" he sighed, "that hope is but as a spider's web. Do you not remember that passage in Ezekiel, 'Though these three men, Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, they should deliver but their own souls by their righteousness, saith the Lord God'? And it is repeated again and again, 'Though Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, as I live, saith the Lord God, they shall deliver neither son nor daughter; they shall but deliver their own souls by their righteousness.' Zoe, dear, no righteousness but the imputed righteousness of Christ can save the soul from death. He offers it to you, love; and will you continue to reject it?"
"Ned," she sobbed, "I wish I had it: I often think I would be a
Christian if I only knew how, but I don't."
"Do you not?" he asked, in some surprise. "I will try to make it plain. Jesus offers you a full and free salvation, purchased by what he has done and suffered in your stead, that 'God might be just, and yet the justifier of him who believeth in Jesus.'
"'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'
"He bids you come to him, and says, 'Him that cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.'"
"But how shall I come?" she asked. "Tell me just how."
"How do you come to me, love, when you feel that you have displeased me, and want to be reconciled?"
"Oh! you know I just come and acknowledge that I've been hateful and cross, and say how sorry I am, and that I don't mean to behave so any more, and ask you to forgive and love me; and, dear Ned, you are always so willing and ready to do that, you hardly wait till I've said my say, before you put your arms round me, and hug and kiss me, and it's all right between us."
"Yes, dearest; and God, our heavenly Father, is far more ready to receive and forgive us when we turn to him with sorrow for our sins, confessing them and pleading for pardon in the name, and for the sake, of his dear Son, our Saviour," "I'm afraid I don't feel half so sorry as I ought."
"Who of us does? but we are not to wait for that. We must come to him, to be shown the evil of our natures, the sinfulness of our lives.
"'Him hath God exalted with his right hand to be a Prince and a Saviour, for to give repentance to Israel, and forgiveness of sins.'"
"But how am I to make myself believe?" she asked.
"'By grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God.' So you see, we have to go to Jesus for it all,—for repentance, for faith, for salvation from the guilt and love of sin, and from eternal death.
"The plan of salvation is very simple,—its very simplicity seems to stumble many; they don't know how to believe that it is offered them as a free gift; they think they must do something to merit it; but it cannot be bought, it is 'without money and without price.' 'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely,' Come to Jesus, dear one; come now, for only the present moment is yours; delay is most dangerous, for the invitation may be withdrawn at any time."
"If I could only see him! If I could hear his voice!" she sighed.
"That you cannot; yet you know I am not nearer to you, or more willing to hear a petition from you, than he is."
At that moment a well-known step was heard in the hall without; and as
Zoe rose hastily, wiping her eyes, Arthur tapped at the door.
CHAPTER VIII.
"I bless thee for kind looks and words
Showered on my path like dew,
For all the love in those deep eyes,
A gladness ever new."
—MRS. HEMANS.
A week had passed since Edward's accident; and he now exchanged his bed, during the day, for an easy-chair.
He and Zoe had just finished taking their breakfast together in her boudoir when a servant came in with the mail.
There were letters from Viamede,—one for Edward from his mother, one for Zoe from Betty Johnson.
Both brought the unwelcome tidings that little Grace Raymond and
Violet's babe were very ill with scarlet-fever.
Edward read aloud his mother's announcement of the fact. "Yes," said Zoe. "Betty tells me the same thing. O Ned! how sorry I am for poor Vi! It would be hard enough for her if she had the captain with her, to help bear the burden and responsibility, and to share in her grief if they should die."
"Yes, it is hard for her; and I am glad she has mamma and grandpa and grandma with her. Mamma says Dick Percival is attending the children, and there is talk of telegraphing for Arthur.
"Ah," glancing from the window, "here he comes! He will perhaps bring us later news."
Arthur did so: the children were worse than at the date of the letters. He had just received his summons, and would obey it immediately, taking the next train; had called to tell them, and see how Edward was.
"Almost entirely recovered, tell my mother," Edward said, in reply to the query; "and you needn't go feeling any anxiety in regard to this one of your patients," he added playfully.
"I leave him in your care, Zoe," said Arthur; "and, if he does not do well, I shall hold you responsible."
"Then you must lay your commands upon him to obey my orders," she said, with a merry glance from one to the other.
"Would that be any thing new in his experience?" asked the doctor with mock gravity.
"It won't do to question us too closely," returned Zoe, coloring and laughing.
"She is a very good little wife, and tolerably obedient," laughed
Edward. "Really, would you believe it? she told me once she actually
enjoyed obeying—under certain circumstances; and so, I suppose, should
I. Zoe, you mustn't be too hard on me."
"Oh! I intend to be very strict in seeing the doctor's orders carried out," she said; "and I expect to enjoy my brief authority immensely."
Dr. Conly took leave almost immediately, for he had no time to spare; and the reading of the letters was resumed.
Betty's was a long one, giving a full account, from her point of view, of the contest between Mr. Dinsmore and Lulu Raymond in regard to her refusal to take music-lessons of Signor Foresti after he had struck her. None of the family had mentioned the affair in their letters, even Rosie feeling that she had no warrant to do so; and the story was both new and interesting to Zoe.
Lulu had not yet submitted when Betty wrote, so the story as told in her letter left the little girl still in banishment at Oakdale Academy.
Zoe read the letter aloud to Edward.
"Lulu is certainly the most ungovernable child I have ever seen or heard of," he remarked, at its conclusion. "I often wonder at the patience and forbearance grandpa and mamma have shown toward her. In their place, I should have had her banished to a boarding-school long ago, one at a distance, too, so that she could not trouble me, even during holidays."
"So should I," said Zoe: "she hasn't the least shadow of a claim upon them."
"No: the captain feels that, and is duly grateful. It is evident, too, that Lulu's lack of gratitude, and her bad behavior, are extremely mortifying to him."
"But don't you think, Ned, it was rather hard to insist on her going back to that ill-tempered, abusive old music-teacher?"
"Yes," he acknowledged with some hesitation. "I rather wonder at grandpa."
"I wonder how it is going to end," said Zoe: "they are both so very determined, I should not like to stand in Lulu's shoes, nor yet in his."
A second letter from Betty, received a fort-night later, told how it had ended: though Betty, not being in Lulu's confidence as Evelyn was, knew nothing of Capt. Raymond's letter to his daughter, or of Lulu's confession in reply to it; so her story ended with the statement that Lulu had at last submitted, been restored to favor, and was at Magnolia Hall with Evelyn as a companion, all the children who were in health having been banished from Viamede to save them from the danger of catching the dreaded fever.
But to go back to the morning when the first instalment of her story was received.
"It must be a very anxious time for them,—the family at Viamede, I mean," remarked Edward musingly. "And poor, dear Vi is so young to have such burdens to bear. What a blessing that she has mamma with her!"
"Yes," said Zoe. "And, oh! I hope the children will get well, they are such darlings, both Gracie and the baby. I feel very sorry they are so ill, and yet I can't help rejoicing that my dear husband is able to sit up again.
"Is that quite heartless in me?" she asked, laying her hand on one of his, which rested on the arm of his easy-chair; for she was seated in a low rocker, close at his side.
"I think not," he answered, smiling down into her eyes. "It will do them no good for us to make ourselves unhappy. We will sympathize with, and pray for, them, but at the same time be thankful and joyful because of all God's goodness to us and them. 'Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, Rejoice.' 'Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation.'"
"You have certainly obeyed that last injunction," remarked Zoe, looking at him with affectionate admiration; "so patient and cheerful as you have been ever since your injury! Many a man would have grumbled and growled from morning to night; while you have been so pleasant, it was a privilege to wait on you."
"Thank you," he said, laughing: "it is uncommonly good in you to say that, but I'm afraid you are rather uncharitable in your judgment of 'many men.'
"Mamma has not yet heard of my accident," he remarked presently, "and wonders over my long silence. I'll write to her now, if you will be so kind as to bring me my writing-desk."
"I'm doubtful about allowing such exertion," she said: "you are left under my orders, you remember, and I'm to be held responsible for your continued improvement."
"Nonsense! that wouldn't hurt me," he returned, with an amused smile; "and if you won't get the desk, I'll go after it myself."
"No, you mustn't: I sha'n't allow it," she said, knitting her brows, and trying to look stern.
"Then get it for me."
"Well," she said reflectively, "I suppose there'll have to be a compromise. I'll get the desk, if you'll let me act as your amanuensis."
"We'll consider that arrangement after you have brought it."
"No: you must agree to my proposition first."
"Why, what a little tyrant you are!" he laughed. "Well, I consent. Now will you please to bring the desk?"
"Yes," she said, jumping up, and crossing the room to where it stood; "and if you are very good, you may write a postscript with your own hand."
"I'll do it all with my own hand," he said as she returned to his side.
"Why, Ned!" she exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you were a man of your word!"
"And so I am, I trust," he said, smiling at her astonished look, then catching her right hand in his. "Is not this mine?" he asked: "did you not give it to me?—Let me see—nearly two years ago?"
"Yes, I did," she answered, laughing and blushing with pleasure and happiness: "you are right; it is yours. So you have every right to use it, and must do so."
"Ah!" he said, "'a wilful woman will have her way,' I see: there never was a truer saying. No, that won't do," as she seated herself with the desk on her lap: "put it on the table. I can't have you bending over to write on your lap, and so growing round-shouldered, especially in my service."
"Any thing to please you," she returned gayly, doing as he directed. "I suppose my right hand is not all of me that you lay claim to?"
"No, indeed! I claim you altogether, as my better and dearer half," he said, his tone changing from jest to earnest, and the light of love shining in his eyes.
She ran to him at that, put her arms round his neck, and laid her cheek to his. "No, Ned, I can't have you say that," she murmured, "you who are so good and wise, while I am such a silly and faulty thing, not at all worthy to be your wife. Whatever made you marry me?"
"Love," he answered, drawing her closer, and fondly caressing her hair and cheek,—"love that grows stronger and deeper with every day we live together, dearest."
"Dear Ned, my own dear husband!" she said, hugging him tighter. "Words could never tell how much I love you, or how I rejoice in your love for me: you are truly my other, my best, half, and I don't know how I could live without you."
"Our mutual love is a cause for great gratitude to God," he said reverently. "There are so many miserably unhappy couples, I feel that I can never be thankful enough for the little wife who suits me so entirely."
"You are my very greatest earthly blessing," she replied, lifting her head, and gazing into his face with eyes shining with joy and love; "and your words make me very, very happy. Now," releasing herself from his embrace, "it's time to attend to business, isn't it? I am ready to write if you will dictate." And she seated herself before the desk, and took up her pen.
It was not a lengthened epistle. He began with an acknowledgment of the receipt of his mother's letter, expressed his sympathy in the sorrow and suffering at Viamede, gave a brief account of his accident, consequent illness, and partial recovery, highly eulogizing Zoe as the best of wives and nurses.
When he began that, her pen ceased its movement, and was held suspended over the paper, while, blushing deeply, she turned to him with a remonstrance.
"Don't ask me to write that: I am ashamed to have mamma see it in my handwriting."
"Go on," he said: "she will know they are my words, and not yours."
"Well, I obey orders," she replied with a smile; "but I don't half like to do it."
"Then let me," he said. "If you will hold the desk on the arm of my chair for five minutes, and give me the pen, I can finish up the thing easily, and without the least danger of hurting my precious self."
She did as directed. "There, now lie back in your chair, and rest," she said, when he had finished his note, and signed his name. "You do look a little tired," she added, with an anxious glance at him as she returned the desk to the table.
"Nonsense! tired with that slight exertion!" he responded gayly. "You may read that over, and see if it wants any correction."
She did so, then, turning toward him with an arch smile, asked, "May I criticise?"
"I should be happy to have the benefit of your criticism," he said, laughing; "but don't make it too severe, please."
"Oh, no! I was only thinking that mamma, judging of her by myself, would not be half satisfied with such a bare statement of facts, and that I had better write a supplement, giving her more of the particulars."
"I highly approve the suggestion," he answered, "only stipulating that you shall not spend too much time over it, and shall read it to me when finished."
"I'm afraid it won't be worth your hearing."
"Let me judge of that. If not worth my hearing, can it be worth mamma's reading?"
"Perhaps so," she said with a blush; "because what I tell will be news to her, but not to you."
"Ah! I hadn't thought of that. But I shall want to hear it all the same, and take my turn at criticism."
"If you are not more severe than I was, I can stand it," she said. "And now please keep quiet till I am done."
He complied, lying back at his ease, and amusing himself with watching her, admiring the graceful pose of her figure, the pretty face bending over the paper, and the small, white, shapely hand that was gliding swiftly back and forth.
"Come," he said at last, "you are making quite too long a story of it."
"Mamma won't think so," she retorted, without looking up; "and you know you are not obliged to hear it."
"Ah! but that is not the objection; I want to hear every word of it: but
I can't spare my companion and nurse so long."
She turned to him with a bright smile. "What can I do for you, dear?
Just tell me. The letter can be finished afterward, you know."
"I want nothing but you," was the smiling rejoinder. "Finish your letter, and then come and sit close by my side.
"But no; you must take your accustomed exercise in the open air."
Considering a moment, "I think," he said, "I'll have you order the carriage for about the time you are likely to be done there, and we'll have a drive together."
She shook her head gravely. "You are not fit for any such exertion."
"Uncle Ben and Solon shall help me down the stairs and into the carriage, so there need be no exertion about it."
"I won't consent," she said. "The doctor left you in my charge; and his orders were, that you should keep quiet for the next few days."
"You prefer to go alone, do you?"
"Yes, rather than have you injured by going with me."
"Come here," he said; and, laying down her pen, she obeyed.
He took both her hands in his, and, gazing with mock gravity up into her face as she stood over him, "What a little tyrant you are developing into!" he remarked, knitting his brows. "Will you order the carriage, and take a drive in my company?"
"No."
"Then what will you do?"
"Go by myself, or stay at home with you, just as you bid me."
"What a remarkable mixture of tyranny and submission," he exclaimed, laughing, as he pulled her down to put his arm round her, and kiss her first on one cheek, then on the other. "I'll tell you what we'll do: you finish that letter, read it to me, and take the benefit of my able criticisms; then I'll try to get a nap while you take your drive or walk, whichever you prefer."
"That will do nicely," she said, returning his caresses; "if you will be pleased to let me go, I'll order the carriage, finish the letter in five minutes, hear the able criticisms, put my patient to bed, and be off for my drive."
"Do so," he said, releasing her.
From this time forward, till the children were considered out of danger, and Edward was able to go about and attend to his affairs as usual, there were daily letters and telegrams passing between Viamede and Ion. Then Dr. Conly came home, and almost immediately on his arrival drove over to Ion to see for himself if his patient there had entirely recovered, and to carry some messages and tokens of affection from the absent members of the family.
It was late in the afternoon that he reached Ion, and he found Edward and Zoe sitting together in the parlor; she with a bit of embroidery in her hands, he reading aloud to her.
Arthur was very warmly welcomed by both.
"Cousin Arthur, I'm delighted to see you!" cried Zoe, giving him her hand.
"And I no less so," added Edward, offering his. "How did you leave them all at Viamede?"
"All in health, except, of course, the two little ones who have been so ill," he said, taking the chair Edward drew forward for him; "and them we consider out of danger, with the careful attention they are sure to have."
"How have mamma and Vi stood the anxiety and nursing?" asked Edward.
"Quite as well as could have been expected. They have lost a little in flesh and color, but will, I think, soon regain both, now that their anxiety is relieved.