CHAPTER XVII.
TWO LETTERS AND A JOURNEY.
It was late in April before Mark rose from the bed on which for weeks he had tossed and raved in the delirium of fever.

He had raved of the horrible darkness and the cold water, and begged that the star should not be taken away.

One evening he woke from a heavy, death-like sleep in which he had lain for hours, and in a voice so weak that it was almost a whisper, called "Mother." "Here I am, dear"; and the figure which had been almost constantly beside him during the long struggle, bent over and kissed him gently.
"I ain't dead, am I, mother ?" he whispered.
"No, dear, you are alive, and with God's help are going to get well and strong again.

But don't try to talk now; wait until you are stronger." For several days the boy lay sleeping, or with eyes wide open watching those about him, but feeling so weak and tired that even to think was an effort.

Still, the fever had left him, and from the day he called "Mother" he gradually grew stronger, until finally he could sit up in bed.