As the first sunbeams brightened the sky, Mr. Leslie again opened his eyes, the doctors bent over him, and it seemed to Aunt Faith as if she could hear all the hearts in the room throbbing aloud in the intense anxiety of the moment. "The worst is over," whispered Doctor Gregory, stepping back and shaking hands with Aunt Faith; "we shall bring him through, now, I think." Sibyl sat with her head hidden on Hugh's shoulder; she heard the doctor's words, but a sudden timidity had come over her. "Let us go," she whispered, turning towards the door. But Hugh had been watching the sick man. "He is conscious; he knows us!" he said suddenly, and leading his sister forward, he left her at the bedside, pale and trembling with joyful emotion. "Sibyl," said Mr. Leslie in a faint voice, "is it you? Have you come to me at last, dear?" "Yes, John," said Sibyl, bending over him with tears in her eyes. "I have brought myself and my life to you,--if you care for them." "If?" said Mr. Leslie, with the ghost of a smile on his pale face; "as if there was any doubt--" but here the doctors interfered, and the rest of the sentence was postponed. CHAPTER IX. THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER Mr. Leslie improved slowly; when he was able to leave his room most of his days of enforced idleness were spent in the shaded parlor of the old stone house, or riding through the narrow country lanes, sometimes with all the cousins, sometimes with Sibyl alone. A friend had come from the interior of the State to take charge of the chapel during July and August, for the physicians had forbidden any active work during that time; but, although Mr. Vinton preached and attended to the duties of the position, Mr. Leslie retained all his interest in the congregation, and his people felt, that he was with them in spirit, hour by hour, and day by day. They came to him also,--came in greater numbers and with more open affection than ever before; they showed their interest in many different ways,--and the young pastor's heart was filled with joy at these evidences of love from the flock for which he had labored. "It takes sickness or affliction to bring hidden love and sympathy to the surface," he said, one afternoon, as he sat in the parlor with Aunt Faith, Hugh, Bessie, and Sibyl. "We do not see the rainbow until the storm comes; and so people may live on for years in prosperity, and never know, save by intuition, the deep affection in each other's hearts. But when sorrow strikes them, then love comes to the surface, doubly precious and comforting in the hour of trial."