"About your friends. When I am strong, I shall want to know them. Introduce me to them beforehand." "I introduce you, then," she said with tender gravity, without losing touch of her lighter mood, "to everybody." "Is everybody your friend, Lauretta?" "Yes, everybody--truly! and it makes me very glad to know it." "But there are special ones, Lauretta." "Of course there are special ones. First, my dearest." "Your parents?" "Yes, they are the first, the best, the dearest. It is well known; my mother is an angel." "I honour them, Lauretta." "All do. That is why people like me; because I belong to them, and they to me." "You are loved for yourself, Lauretta." "No," she said, with pretty wilfulness, "because of them. Then there is Father Daniel, a saint, my mother says; then Eric and Emilius--and that is all, I think, who can be called special." "Eric and Emilius?" I said, in the form of a question. "Yes, they are brothers, handsome, brave, and strong. You will like them, I am sure you will." Handsome, brave, and strong! I gave Lauretta a searching look, and she returned it smilingly. There was no blush, no self-consciousness. Why, then, should I feel disturbed? Why should Eric and Emilius become established in my mind as barriers to the happiness for which I yearned. I did not dare to trust myself to ask for information of these friends of Lauretta, so handsome, brave, and strong--I was fearful that my voice might betray me; and as I could converse on no other topic with ease, I remained silent while Lauretta chatted on sweetly and artlessly. CHAPTER IX. I was quite well; the fever had entirely departed, and my ankle was as strong and sound as ever. I moved about freely, with a keen enjoyment of life, an enjoyment intensified by the happiness which I believed to be in store for me. Four weeks had passed since Lauretta had uttered the names of Eric and Emilius, and I had seen nothing of them. Not only had they not visited the house, but I was convinced they were not in the village. My jealous fears were dead. The hopes in which I indulged were strengthened by Doctor Louis's behavior towards me. There had been a short conversation between us on the subject of what had passed while he was endeavouring to mesmerise me on the first day of my convalescence. It was I who, to his manifest relief, broached the subject. "I remember everything perfectly," I said, "every phase of my sensations, every word that was spoken, every thought that occurred to me. Although my eyes were sealed, I saw you plainly, and it seemed to me that I could _see_ what was passing through your mind." "It is frank of you," said Doctor Louis, "to say so much. Was I in error in supposing that you were resisting me?" "Not entirely in error," I replied. "I was aware of your design, and I strove to exercise over you, to some extent, a power similar to that you were exercising over me. If I did nothing else, I gave you pause."