David Lindsay sank on his knees beside the bed and gazed on the beautiful, unconscious face turned towards him, as he never would have dared to gaze had those features been instinct with wakeful intelligence. And then, out of the fullness of his heart, he began to murmur words of passionate love to those sealed ears that he never would have ventured to utter had they been listening—words of reverential, worshiping love, that for their incoherence and extravagance could scarcely bear repetition here. He lifted a tress of the floating golden hair and pressed it to his lips, while his tears fell thick and heavily. “Why do I love you?” he sighed at length. “I know it is vain, and worse than vain! I am but a clod of the earth! And you, what are you? I scarcely know. Something so pure, so precious, so sacred, that it seems sacrilege to touch this halo around your head, these peerless tresses. Yet I love you! I love you! Clod as I am, I love you, oh! unattainable blessing! I might as well love a queen on her throne, the sun in the heavens, the moon, or any glorious, infinitely distant star! Oh, Gloria! Gloria! Bright seraph, why did you come and shine on this poor earth that I am, to quicken it with a living soul—to wake it to such love, such suffering, such despair?” Down went his head again upon the side of the bed, while his bosom heaved with heavy sobs, and his tears fell like rain. “David Lindsay.” Her sweet voice fell on his ears like a benediction. He lifted his head. She was awake, and gazing gently on his troubled face. “What is the matter, David Lindsay? What has happened?” she inquired, with a look of sympathy and deep perplexity. “Nothing; I mean—yes, something has happened, but it is well over, and, oh, how I thank heaven to hear you speak again!” he said, with an effort to recover his self-control, as he arose from his knees. “What? Is the little lady awake at last? Well, it is time. It would not have been good for her to have slept longer,” said the voice of Dame Lindsay, who had just entered the room and approached the bed. “She has just this instant opened her eyes, and has scarcely yet collected her thoughts, I think,” said the young man, in a low tone, as he gave place to the old woman, and went out of the house to conceal from her the traces of his strong emotion. “How does ’ee feel, dearie?” inquired the dame, bending over the revived girl. “I don’t think I quite know,” answered Gloria, with a bewildered look, as she passed her hand over her forehead, as if to clear away some mental mist of forgetfulness, and opened her eyes, half raised herself in bed and gazed around her. “Does ’ee know me, dearie?” “Oh, yes, dee-ar, good Dame Lindsay, but I don’t remember——” “Does ’ee know where ’ee is, darling?” “To be sure I do know this dee-ar old cottage, but I can’t remember coming here at all!”