This keen sympathy of her anxious friends seemed to surround Eva with an atmosphere of love and good will, through which the light of reason began to penetrate to her bewildered mind. Now and then she had a shy, sweet smile for the woman doctor; now and then she offered a light caress, and presently she began to open the books that were given her, and stare dreamily at the illustrations. She ceased chanting her soul-piercing melancholy songs, and talked to herself instead, sometimes like a little child at play. One day Doctor Rupert, pausing at a little distance to watch her, while he seemed to be busy with another patient, saw her pick up a paper that had fallen from her book and open it with trembling fingers. He was close enough to see that the unfolded sheet had some verses written on it in a large, masculine hand, and he glanced curiously at Eva’s face. It was startling, the flash of joyous comprehension that changed her face like lightning from its dull blank of indifference, as her great sombre dark eyes ran over the verses. “What has happened to little Eva? She looks brighter--almost sane! Has she a letter?” asked Doctor Bertrand, coming up to Rupert. He answered huskily: “In one of the novels I brought her I must have left a copy of some verses I had written, for she seems to be reading them.” They moved a little closer, and she looked up at them with a smile of childlike confidence and joy, exclaiming eagerly: “See, my poet-lover has sent me some more of his sweet verses!” It was the first comprehensive sentence she had uttered since coming to the asylum, nearly four months before. They could not answer for surprise, and Eva added, with gentle happiness: “Now I know that my unknown lover is not dead. It is so long--so long--since he sent me my tokens of his love that I thought he was dead.” “My dear Eva!” Doctor Bertrand cried, with tender sympathy, and catching hold of her hand, Eva continued: “Many times I have looked on the window sill at dawn for the tokens he used to leave there--the wildflowers with the dew on their fragrant petals, the boxes of candy, the poetry books, and, sweetest of all the dear poems in praise of me that thrilled my heart with joy in every word. Do you remember how jealous and angry the twins were when I first told them about my splendid unknown lover?” She stopped and pressed her lips to the paper in her hand, thrilling one heart to a secret, inexpressible ecstasy. “How wonderful! She seems almost sane. She has never talked as much as that to any one here before. I am glad you left your verses in the book. They seem to have struck some vibrating chord in her fancy. Can it be fancy, or a reality?” Doctor Bertrand murmured excitedly to her companion, who answered with gleaming eyes: “It is hard to tell!” He felt like breaking down and confessing all his secret to the sympathetic woman at his side, but prudence restrained his confidence.