The doctor was not quite so sure of this, but he did not express the thought. "You will regain her," said he. "Alas! I fear not. The boat was almost a total wreck. I saw scores of dead and dying as I clung to my frail support." "Fear not. Believe me, captain, I am a prophet; she shall be restored to your arms again." "I thank you for the assurance; but I fear you are not an infallible prophet." "In this instance, I am." Henry looked at the doctor, and saw the smile of satisfaction that played upon his usually stern features. It augured hope--more than hope; and, as the wrecked mariner clings to the disjointed spar, his mind fastened upon that smile as the forerunner of a blissful reunion with her his soul cherished. "Be calm, sir, be calm; she is safe," continued Dr. Vaudelier. "Do you know it?" almost shouted Henry, attempting to rise. "Be quiet, sir," said the doctor, in a voice approaching to sternness; "be quiet, or I shall regret that I gave you reason to hope." "Where is she?" asked Henry, sinking back at the doctor's reproof, and heeding not the darting pain his attempt to rise had produced. "She is safe; let this suffice. I see you cannot bear more now." "I can bear anything, sir, anything. I will be as gentle as a lamb, if you will tell me all you know of her." "If you keep entirely quiet, we will, in a few days, let her speak for herself." "Then she is safe; she has escaped every danger?" "She has." "And was not injured?" "No; she was taken, it seems, from the wreck by a villain. Thank God, she has escaped his wiles!" Henry's indignation could scarcely be controlled, even by the reflection that Maxwell's wicked intentions had been turned, by an overruling Providence, into the means of her safety. Dr. Vaudelier related to his patient the incident of the wood-yard; not, however, without the necessity of frequently reproving his auditor, whose exasperation threatened serious consequences. When, at the conclusion of the narration, he told Henry that the loved one was at that moment beneath his roof, he could scarcely restrain his immoderate joy within the bounds of that quiet which his physician demanded. "May I not see her?" said he. "That must depend entirely upon your own behavior. You have not shown yourself a very tractable patient thus far." "I will be perfectly docile," pleaded Henry. "I fear I cannot trust you. You are so excitable, that you explode like a magazine of gunpowder." "No, no; I solemnly promise to keep perfectly quiet. She will, I know, be glad to see me, wounded and stricken though I am." "She has already seen you." "Indeed!" "Yes; and not content with _seeing_ you merely, your lips are not yet cold from the kiss she imprinted upon them;" and a smile, not altogether stoical, lit up the doctor's cold expression. "You shall see her, but the instant I perceive that the interview is prejudicial to your nerves, I shall remove her." "Thank you, doctor!" said Henry, fervently.