And on the journey he did his very best to put out of his memory the large, lonely, gray "Seat," with its solemn, mysterious chamber of suffering, and its wraiths and memories and fearful fighting away of death.
But on the whole, the hope which Stephen had given him of the squire's final recovery was a too flattering one.

There was, perhaps, no immediate danger of death, but there was still less prospect of entire recovery.

He had begun to remember a little, to speak a word or two, to use his hands in the weak, uncertain way of a young child; but in the main he lay like a giant, bound by invisible and invincible bonds; speechless, motionless, seeking through his large, pathetic eyes the help and comfort of those who bent over him.

He had quite lost the fine, firm contour of his face, his ruddy color was all gone; indeed, the country expression of "face of clay," best of all words described the colorless, still countenance amid the white pillows in the darkened room.
As the spring came on he gained strength and intelligence, and one lovely day his men lifted him to a couch by the window.

The lattices were flung wide open, that he might see the trees tossing about their young leaves, and the grass like grass in paradise, and hear the bees humming among the apple-blooms, and the sheep bleating on the fells.
The earth was full of the beauty and the tranquillity of God.