After a little, the sights grew dim again, and the sounds sank into
silence. Sleep, the merciful, took her once more, and hushed her back to
repose.
Another day--and the sights were clearer, the sounds were louder.
Another--and she heard a man's voice, through the door, asking for
news from the sick-room. The voice was strange to her; it was always
cautiously lowered to the same quiet tone. It inquired after her, in the
morning, when she woke--at noon, when she took her refreshment--in the
evening, before she dropped asleep again. "Who is so anxious about me?"
That was the first thought her mind was strong enough to form--"Who is
so anxious about me?"
More days--and she could speak to the nurse at her bedside; she could
answer the questions of an elderly man, who knew far more about her than
she knew about herself, and who told her he was Mr. Merrick, the doctor;
she could sit up in bed, supported by pillows, wondering what had
happened to her, and where she was; she could feel a growing curiosity
about that quiet voice, which still asked after her, morning, noon, and
night, on the other side of the door.
Another day's delay--and Mr. Merrick asked her if she was strong enough
to see an old friend.
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