“You, who never heard of me till the first day we met, know little of the stored-up happiness your very name has afforded me for many a day,--how, days long, Jack talked of you to me as we rambled together, how the long nights of the trenches were beguiled by telling of you,--till at length I scarcely knew whether I had not myself known and loved you for years. I used to fancy, too, how every trait of poor Jack--his noble ardor, his generous devotion--might be displayed amidst the softer and more graceful virtues of womanhood; and at last I came to know you, far and away above all I have ever dreamed of.” “Let me go,--let me say good-bye,” said she, in a faint whisper. “Bear with me a few moments longer, Sybella,” cried he, passionately. “With all their misery, they are the happiest of my life.” “This is unfair,--it is almost ungenerous of you,” said she, with scarcely stifled emotion, and still endeavoring to withdraw her hand. “So it is!” cried he, suddenly; “it is unmanly and ignoble both, and it is only a poor, selfish sick man could stoop to plead so abjectly.” He relinquished her hand as he spoke, and then, grasping it suddenly, he pressed it to his lips, and burst into tears. “A soldier should be made of better stuff, Sybella,” said he, trying to smile. “Goodbye,--good-bye.” “It is too late to say so now,” said she, faintly; “I will not go.” “Not go,--not leave me, Sybella?” cried he. “Oh that I may have heard you aright! Did you say you would remain with me, and for how long?” “Forever!” said she, stooping down and kissing his forehead. The next moment she was gone. “Come, Conway,” said the doctor, “cheer up, my good fellow; you 'll be all right in a week or so. You 've got something worth living for, too, if all accounts be true.” “More than you think for, doctor,” said Conway, heartily,--“far more than you think for.” “The lawyer talks of a peerage and a fine estate.” “Far more than that,” cried Conway; “a million times better.” The surgeon turned a look of half apprehension on the sick man, and, gently closing the shutters, he withdrew. Dark as was that room, and silent as it was, what blissful hopes and blessed anticipations crowded and clustered around that low “sick-bed”! What years of happiness unfolded themselves before that poor brain, which no longer felt a pang, save in the confusion of its bright imaginings! How were wounds forgotten and sufferings unminded in those hours wherein a whole future was revealed! At last he fell off to sleep, and to dream of a fair white hand that parted the hair upon his forehead, and then gently touched his feverish cheek. Nor was it all a dream; she was at his bedside. CHAPTER XXXIII. “GROG” IN COUNCIL