And when recovery slowly, slowly approaches the bed of pain, like a tender spring flower coyly raising its head, ever threatened by the rough hand of a wintry death, who hesitatingly and unwillingly gives up his prey, and with his cold flakes strives to stifle the bloom so unweariedly tended day and night; how the loving heart bows down in humble thanksgiving before the Almighty, in whose hand human life is but a breath, which in a moment can fail, and which yet is so carefully preserved, and adorned with such rich blessing. How small appear human wishes, human will; how resignedly the heart learns to pray, "Lord, not my will, but Thine be done!" with what trust and faith the soul rises to the Father beyond the stars, who says, "Ask, and it shall be given you." Madame von Wendenstein passed through all these phases of inner life beside the bed of her son; hoping and fearing, doubting and trusting, she always maintained her outward calmness, and performed all the duties of a nurse, assisted by the two young girls. Pale and quiet, Helena took her share of the work, her large, dreamy eyes, quickened by anxiety, watching every feature of the wounded man. And hope had come, rejoicing every heart. The patient had passed through the first fever from the wound. The ball had been satisfactorily extracted; only one crisis more had to be feared--the flow of blood which had filled the deep wound; then there was only the recovery of strength to the much-shaken nervous system. The most complete quiet was ordered by the surgeon; no loud sound must be permitted to reach the patient's ear; no question must be answered, and smiling lips and friendly glances must be the only language between the sufferer and his nurses. And how expressive was this language! What pure, warm light flowed from Helena's eyes when they rested on the pale face of the sleeper; how they hung on every breath, how thankfully were they raised above when the regular breathing told of soft and gentle sleep! And when the sufferer opened his eyes, and saw those glances, what bright, expressive looks, though weak from illness, replied. How wonderful is it that the eye can express so much, that small circle which yet can comprehend and mirror back the firmament, with its stars, the everlasting mountains, and the boundless sea; what no words can utter, what the most glowing poetry cannot express, is all said by the eye, with its fine shades of varied expression; and above all by the eyes of the sick, because, banished from the changing and distracting pictures of the world, they have grown clearer and more transparent, revealing more plainly all that passes in the self-contained soul.