With a trembling grasp she held his face close to her own and tried to tell him something. But it was all in vain that he strained every nerve of his ear to understand what she meant. There was nothing to be made out of the mumbling noise, the only sound she could articulate. It would not always be thus, the doctor said. She would recover her powers of speech, partially, if not in whole, and possibly recover the use of her limbs. He had seen far worse forms of paralysis from which there was entire recovery. She was young, and naturally healthy, and had every reason to hope for entire restoration to health. “Be of good courage,” he said to her kindly, for he saw she understood him, and hung eagerly upon his words; “be of good courage, and you will yet be a happy bride, though perhaps not to-day.” There was a sound then from the pallid lips, a low, moaning sound, and a spasm of pain contracted every muscle of the white face, while in the dark eyes there was a look of horror, as if the doctor’s words had not been welcome ones. Maude, who was standing by her, and chafing her lifeless hands, said to her next, “We have sent for Roy, Georgie. Do you want to see him?” At the mention of Roy’s name, the dumb lips spoke with an agonized effort which brought the great sweat-drops upon cheek and brow. “No, no, no; Ja-ack,” they said, and the sound was more like the moan of some wounded animal than like a human cry, while the eyes seemed as if trying to leap from their sockets, as they fastened themselves upon Jack. “What, sister? What is it?” he asked, and with another mighty effort the lips moved slowly, and one by one made out the words, “Don’t—let—Roy—” They could not articulate any more, but Jack thought he comprehended her meaning, and said, “Not let Roy see you yet? Is that it, sister?” She clutched his hand nervously in answer to the question and held it tightly in her own. She did not want to see Roy then or ever. She could not bear it, she thought; could not endure to look upon what she had loved and lost just as it was within her reach. Guilt, remorse, and shame were busy at work, and those who watched by her little dreamed of the bitter anguish which was rending her soul and sending out that rain of perspiration which wet her night-dress about the neck, and wet her long, black hair, and the pillow on which she lay, and which was the means eventually of doing her bodily good. The profuse perspiration seemed in some way to grapple with, and partially subdue the disease, so that after an hour or more she could speak more distinctly, and the little finger of her right hand moved once as Maude was rubbing it.