His dream,--the vague indefinable longing which possessed him for love--pure, disinterested, unselfish love,--seemed on the verge of coming true.

Yet he would not allow himself to hope too much,--he preferred to look on the darker side of probable disillusion.

Meanwhile, he was conscious of a sweetness and comfort in his life such as he had never yet experienced.

His thoughts dwelt with secret pleasure on the open frankness and calm beauty of the face that had bent over him with the watchfulness of a guardian angel through so many days and nights of pain, delirium, and dread of death,--and he noted with critically observant eyes the noiseless graceful movement of this humbly-born woman, whose instincts were so delicate and tender, whose voice was so gentle, and whose whole bearing expressed such unaffected dignity and purity of mind.

On this particular morning she was busy ironing;--and she had left the door open between his bedroom and the kitchen, so that he might benefit by the inflow of fresh air from the garden, the cottage door itself being likewise thrown back to allow a full entrance of the invigorating influences of the light breeze from the sea and the odours of the flowers.