She did not seem to mind old Sally's talk, almost to hear it, but when it ended, she waited, still silent, as a child, when the music is over, listens for more.
When she came down she placed her chair near the window, that she might see the snowdrops and the crocuses.
'The spring, at last, Sally, my darling, and I feel so much better;' and Lily smiled on the flowers through the windows, and I fancy the flowers opened in that beautiful light.
And she said, every now and then, that she felt 'so much better--so much stronger,' and made old Sally sit by her, and talk to her, and smiled so happily, and there again were all her droll engaging little ways.

And when the good rector came in, that evening, she welcomed him in the old pleasant way: though she could not run out, as in other times, when she heard his foot on the steps, to meet him at the door, and there was such a beautiful colour in her clear, thin cheeks, and she sang his favourite little song for him, just one verse, with the clear, rich voice he loved so well, and then tired.

The voice remained in his ears long after, and often came again, and that little song, in lonely reveries, while he sat listening, in long silence, and twilight, a swan's song.
'You see, your little Lily is growing quite well again.

I feel so much better.' There was such a childish sunshine in her smile, his trembling heart believed it.
'Oh! little Lily, my darling!' he stopped--he was crying, and yet delighted.

Smiling all the time, and crying, and through it a little laugh, as if he had waked from a dream of having lost her, and found her there--his treasure--safe.