He neither moved nor paid any attention when his visitor came in, and she had time to see all the change confinement and illness had made in him.

And the change was, indeed, startling.

All the flush of intemperance had left his face, and at this moment his fever had subsided also, and left him only the natural dark but clear tint of his Indian blood; his hair had been smoothly combed, and looked less grey than when it hung tangled and knotted; his extreme weakness gave him an aspect of repose, which brought back the ghost of his old self--something of the look of that Christian who had been, to a girl's fancy, so fit a hero of romance.
It was but a likeness, truly, shadowy and dim, but it seemed to bridge over the interval--the long, long weary years since the hero changed into the tyrant, and to make far easier that task of comforting and helping which duty, and not love, had imposed.
She came to his side, and still he did not notice her.

His eyes were fixed on the pale, grey, snowy sky, and he seemed deaf to the slight sounds of her movements.

She sat down and watched him silently.