“Poor Rocket, I’m sory too for Mas’r Hugh, but he won’t die, ’case I’ve prayed for him. I has prayed twicet, and I knows now he’ll live. If you could only pray—I wonder if horses can!” and thinking she would ask the new miss, Mug continued to stroke the horse, who suffered her caress, and even rubbed his face against her arm, eating the tuft of grass she plucked for him. Once Mug thought of trying to lead him to the stall, but he looked so tall and formidable, towering up above her, that she dared not, and after a few more assurances that Mas’r Hugh would live, she left him to himself, with the very sensible advice, that if she’s he, she wouldn’t _ac_ so, but would go to bed, in the stable like a good boy. Returning to the house Mug stole up stairs to the door of the sick room, where Alice was now alone with Hugh. He was awake, and for an instant seemed to know her, for he attempted to speak, but the rational words died on his lips, and he only moaned, as if in distress. “What is it?” Alice said, bending over him. “Are you the Golden Haired?” he asked again as her curls swept his face. “No, I’m not Golden Hair,” she answered, soothingly. “I’m Alice, come to nurse you. You have heard of Alice Johnson. ’Lina told you of her.” “_Ad!_” he almost screamed. “Do you know Ad? I am sorry for you. Who are you?” and as if determined to solve the mystery he raised himself upon his elbow and stretching out his hand, pushed her flowing curls back from her sunny face, muttering as he did so, “‘There angels do always behold his face.’ That’s in her Bible. I’m reading it through. I began last winter, when Adah came. Have you heard of Adah?” Alice had heard of Adah and suggested sending for her, asking “if he would not like to have her come.” “And you go away?” he said, grasping her hand and holding it fast. “No, you must not go. There’s something in your face that makes me happy, something like hers. When I say her or she, I mean Golden Hair. There’s only one _her_ to me.” “Who is Golden Hair?” Alice asked, and instantly the great tears gathered in Hugh’s dark eyes as he replied. “Don’t say who is she, but who was she. I’ve never told a living being before. Golden Hair was a bright angel who crossed my path one day, and then disappeared forever, leaving behind the sweetest memory a mortal man ever possessed. It’s weak for men to cry, but I have cried many a night for her, when the clouds were crying, too, and I heard against my window the rain which I knew was falling upon her little grave.” He was growing excited, and thinking he had talked too much, Alice was trying to quiet him, when the door opened softly and Adah herself came in. Bowing politely to Alice she advanced to Hugh’s bedside, and bending over him spoke his name. He knew her, and turning to Alice, said, “This is Adah; you will like each other; I am sure.”