In great surprise Richard heard of Dr. Clayton’s sudden departure. “There must be something wrong,” he thought, though what he did not know. Going up to Rosa’s chamber, he found her still asleep. The room was in order—the servant gone, and on the bureau lay the letter which soon caught his attention. Glancing at the superscription he saw it was for Rose, and thinking to keep it safely until she could understand its contents, he placed it in his pocket; then taking a book, he sat by her bedside until she awoke. She was apparently better, but an unnatural brightness of her eyes told that her mind was still unsettled. So he said nothing to her concerning the doctor’s desertion, but himself ministered to her wants. In the course of a few days Mrs. Lansing was induced to visit her. This she did more willingly, for Rose had loved her little Jessie; she would weep bitterly when she knew she was dead; and the proud nature of the haughty woman gave way to the softer feelings, which often prompts a mother to take a deeper interest in whatever was once dear to a lost, a precious child. So casting aside her nervous fear, she at last went frequently to the sick-room, her own white, delicate hands sometimes arranging the tumbled pillow or holding the cooling draught to the lips of her formerly despised governess—despised, not for anything which she had done, but because it was hers to labor for the bread she ate. CHAPTER XXVII. LIGHT. It was early morning. The windows of my room were open, admitting the fresh, cool air, which had been purified by one of those terrific thunder storms, so common in a southern clime. For many weeks I had lain there in a state of unconsciousness, save at intervals when I had a dreamy realization of what was transpiring around me. The physician who was called in Dr. Clayton’s stead had more than once hinted of continued insanity, citing similar cases which had come under his observation; but in spite of his opinion, I, that bright August morning, awoke from a refreshing sleep, with perfectly restored faculties. At first I thought I was alone, for there was a deep stillness in the room, and from the hall below I distinctly heard the ticking of the clock, reminding me of the time, years ago, when once before I had hovered between life and death. Now, as then, I experienced the delicious feeling of returning health, but I missed the familiar faces of my friends, and as I thought how far I was from home, and all who loved me, I said aloud, “I am alone, alone.” “Not alone, Rosa, for _I_ am with you,” answered a deep voice near, and the next moment the dark form of Richard Delafield bent over me. Eagerly scanning my face, he said, “Do you know me?” “Yes,” I answered. “Mr. Delafield.” Then as a dim remembrance of the past came over me, I lifted my head and looked around the room for one who I knew had not long since been there.