On the tenth day the fever abated, and Armstrong gradually fell into a long, deep sleep. So long, so profound was the slumber that the attendants about his bed feared that it might be one from which there was no awaking. But the orders of the doctor, who, at the crisis was present the whole time, were peremptory that the patient should not be disturbed, but Nature allowed, in her own way, to work out her beneficent purposes. Armstrong then slept many, many hours, in that still and darkened room, while attentive ears were listening to the deeper drawn breath, and anxious eyes watching the slightest change of countenance. At last he awoke, and the first word he spoke, so low, that even in the hushed chamber it was scarcely audible, was, "Faith." A smile of wonderful sweetness illuminated his face, as he tried to extend his hand, white as the snowy coverlet on which it rested, toward her, but so weak was he, that only a motion of the fingers could be perceived. Faith, through the tears which fell upon the hand she covered with kisses, could mark the light of returned intelligence, and her heart swelled with an almost overpowering emotion. "O, doctor," she said, turning to Elmer, "say he is safe." "I hope so," answered Elmer, "but control yourself. I forbid all agitation." The life of Armstrong, for some days longer, vibrated in the balance. So excessive was the weakness consequent upon the tremendous excitement through which he had passed, that sometimes it appeared hardly possible that nature could sufficiently rally, to bring the delicate machinery again into healthy action. But stealing slowly along, insensibly, the gracious work went on, until one day the anxious daughter had the happiness to hear from the lips of the doctor that her father was out of danger. It seems a strange thing, but so it is, that the events of the dreadful day, when, as if by a heavenly interposition, his hand had been arrested when raised to take away the life of his daughter, and also of the time when he lay insane upon his bed, were blotted completely from the memory of Armstrong. The scratches of a school-boy on a slate were never more perfectly erased by a wet sponge. All his conduct proves this. When he beheld his brother after the return of reason, he addressed him as Mr. Holden, and never, in conversation with any one, did he make allusion to his aberration of mind. Nor during the short period while he remained on earth, did he know of his conduct on the banks of the Wootuppocut. The secret was confined to the bosoms of a few, and it was mutually agreed that it was wisest it should be concealed.