As Cecilia entered, Miss Busky arose lightly to her feet and crossed over to her friend, speaking in a subdued whisper. "Did you see him?" she asked. "Yes--he will not come up, thank Heaven!--Dr. Nestley suspects nothing?" "Nothing!--he is asleep--let me place you in the chair--I'm going out for a few minutes." She led Cecilia forward, and the blind girl-sank into the arm-chair; then, hastily putting on her hat, Miss Busky glided rapidly out of the room, leaving Cecilia seated by the bed, listening to the breathing of the invalid. So still, so quiet--it might almost have been the silence of the tomb. Then there came the light patter of rain-drops on the windows. The fire had sunk to a dull red glow, and a piece of burning coal dropped, with a singularly distinct noise, on to the fender. Nestley sighed in his sleep--moved uneasily, and then awoke--a fact which the blind girl was aware of immediately, by her acute sense of hearing. "Cecilia," said the sick man, in a weak voice. "I am here, dear," she replied softly. "Do you want anything?" He put out his hand and clasped one of hers in his feeble grasp. "Only you--only you--I thought you had left me." "Hush!--you must not speak much," she said, arranging the bed-clothes. "I have had a dream," whispered the invalid fearfully, "a strange dream--that I was in the coils of a serpent, being crushed to death. But a woman suddenly appeared, and at her touch the serpent vanished and I was free. The woman had your face, Cecilia." "Hush!--do not speak more--you are too weak--you are in safety now, and no serpent shall touch you while I am by your side." "You will be my wife?" "I will be your wife," she replied softly. "I have loved you from the first day I met you, but never thought you would be burdened with such a useless thing as I." "Not useless, dear. How could I have been so foolish as not to have understood your love before? Thank God for this illness, that has opened my eyes. You have saved my life--my soul." He stopped, through exhaustion, and lay silently upon his pillow, watching the red flare of the fire glimmer on the pale face of the blind girl. A great feeling of joy and thankfulness came over him, as he felt that all the stormy, tempestuous life of the past was over at last--and beside him sat the one woman who could save his weak nature from yielding to the temptations of the world. CHAPTER XXXVIII. MATER DOLOROSA. "Madonna, who hath ever stood As type of holy motherhood, I pray thee, for thy Son's dear sake, This sorrow from my bosom take. For there are those, with anger wild, Who wound the mother thro' the child. I know that thou wilt pity me, For thy Son hung upon the tree. And as He died to save and bless, Oh, help me, thou, in my distress."