"I must talk, or you’ll all vanish and it will turn out to be a dream, I know it will," I answered, holding tight to her hand. "No, for it’s all real. Please lie still now, Gilbert; for my sake," she whispered, bending over me. "I will if you’ll stay and sit where I can see you"; and reaching out I sought to lay hold of her, but eluding me, as if she were a shadow, her form faded from my sight and I knew no more. Coming to again, my first thought was of her, and she, sweet angel, as if knowing it would be so, was there to meet my anxious look. When, however, I would have spoken, she placed her hand on my lips, saying: "You must not talk"; and kissing her hand, I was fain to do as she said. In this way many days passed, Constance giving me nourishment, and sitting beside me, her hand clasped in mine. When sometimes I would have talked in spite of her, she would leave her seat as if to go away; at which I would do as she wished, only looking always into her sweet face and gathering there some new hope of life and happiness. "You are my little mother, Constance, only different from her, and not different either," I said one day. "Yes, always your little mother," she answered, taking my hand. "You will not go away as she did, though?" I answered, the fear of losing her being always uppermost in my mind, so sore was my heart. "You dear boy, you know I will never leave you," she answered, smiling and patting my hand. Lying thus, my thoughts would sometimes wander, in spite of me, to the visions of my sickness, but if I sought to speak of them and so free my mind and have an end of it, Constance would not listen, saying dreams always came to those who had a fever. So, after a while, not being able to speak of them, they faded away, as such things will when treated irreverently. Thus, at last, I got the peace of mind I needed. Save a visit each day from Uncle Job and Setti, no one came near me except Constance and the doctor. When I slept, Constance rested beside me in a great chair, never seeming to eat nor sleep, nor desire to do either. The doctor I had never seen before, but that was not strange, not having much need of medicine up to this time. He had little to say save to tell me I would soon be on my feet if I but did as Constance told me. One day, however, more talkative than usual, he said, smiling on her, and softly tapping his medicine-case: "You have been ill to death, my lad, and but for this little woman, and the calomel and jalap, would have surely died." "I know it; and except for her I’d not care to live," I answered, my throat filling. Nothing, indeed, could exceed my love for the sweet girl, and it added to my happiness now to think I should always owe my life to her and her tender care.