Her presence so rested and stimulated him that it was impossible for him always to realise the truth.

"I can think of nothing but you," he would say to her--"I can think of nothing but you." The sitting-room at the White Cottage looked snug and cosy that morning; the fire burned cheerily, and David Carlyon lay on his luxurious couch in the sunshine in a perfect nest of pillows, carefully screened from draughts, and with a small table beside him, with flowers and fruit and books--all carefully and tastefully arranged by Elizabeth's own hands, on her way to church, while the invalid was still in his bedroom.
It was a good day with David, and the old cheery smile was on his lips as Elizabeth entered; but as she knelt beside him to give him her usual greeting, the ravages of the fatal disease were fearfully perceptible in the strong light.
The hollowed temples and sharply-defined features, the tightened skin, the hectic flush, the emaciation and shortness of breathing, and the constant cough, all told their sad tale of rapid decline and decay.

Too late--she knew it well--for any human skill to arrest those symptoms; no earthly care and love could preserve that cherished life much longer! "You are late, dearest," he said, holding her hand; "I saw the church-goers pass a quarter of an hour ago.

I expect you and my father were gossiping as usual.

But all the same I know my good Fairy has been at work," with a glance at his flowers.