Just then the doctor came in from his rounds in the infested city. The young wife appealed to him, with her mournful eyes trembling with an awful dread as his fingers touched the pulse. “O doctor! is he better?” “Yes, undoubtedly.” Myra burst into tears; the invalid brightened a little, then turned his face on the pillow, and great tears rolled down his cheeks. “No, doctor,” he murmured, “no!” “It is my opinion we have every thing to hope here, madam. Let us take a little more blood, and all will go on well.” Bandages were brought; the sharp lancet bit its way a third time into those hot veins, and directly a servant bore out a great white toilet-bowl frothing over with the red life drawn from a frame already exhausted with its battle against the fever. “There, madam,” said the doctor, laying the wounded arm of his patient tenderly on the counterpane. “He will do well now, have no fear; I will drop in this evening; follow the old directions and keep him quiet.” “O doctor! I can not speak my thankfulness, my heart is so full.” “There is no necessity of words,” said the doctor, complacently; “or for gratitude either, so far as I am concerned.” Myra followed the man, whom she looked upon as something more than human, into the hall. “Ah, doctor, are you sure that he is better—it was not done to cheer him up?” she cried, while her poor lips began to quiver with the fear that crept over her. “Nothing of the sort, dear lady. He is doing well enough; but take care of yourself.” Myra smiled on him through her tears. “God bless you for this comfort,” she said, leaning over the baluster. After he was gone, Myra ran into the room where her children were kept safe from contagion, and gathering them to her bosom, lavished rapturous caresses on their smiling faces. “He is better—he is better, my darlings; he, your blessed, blessed papa. Kiss me a thousand times, and when I am gone go down on your knees so, with these angel faces lifted to heaven, and thank God—do you understand, children?—thank God, that papa is better and will live.” The children obeyed her, and dropping on their knees, lifted their pretty faces heavenward, like the cherubs we see in Raphael’s pictures, looking the prayers they had no language to utter. Then Myra, having subdued her great joy, went back to the sick-room again. How still and deathly he lay under the white cloud of sunshine that brooded over the bed! Myra held her breath, and listened for some sign of improvement. His eyes were closed, and his lips shrunk together and closed motionless in their golden pallor. How the heart of that fond woman cheated itself. His languid stillness was a good sign to her. “Yes,” she whispered, sitting down by the bed, and softly clasping his feeble hand. “There is no pain now; he rests sweetly.” He heard her and clasped her fingers with feeble recognition, but did not speak or attempt to utter a word. Still the great tears rolled down his face, and she knew he was conscious.