When first she was able to look around her with an unclouded mind, she perceived two persons sitting by her side; one was Flora, the other--Teresa.
Though nothing in the world would have induced Teresa to call upon Fanny as a visitor, the very first rumour of her severe illness brought her to her side.

She arrived on the very day when a change for the better had set in, and relieved Flora by taking her turn in the nursing.
Nevertheless, Lady Szentirmay would not depart till she knew for certain that her friend was out of danger, and therefore resolved to wait a few days longer.
So Fanny regained life and consciousness; she no longer chattered oddly and unintelligibly, but lay very still and quiet.

She was cured, the doctors said.
And now she could coldly review the whole course of her life.

What was he, what had she become now, and what would become of her in the future?
She was the scion of a wretched and shameful family, from whose fate she had only been snatched by hands which, wont to lift themselves in prayer to God, had shielded and defended her against every danger, and prepared for her a peaceful and quiet refuge, where she might have lived like a bird of the forest in its hidden nest.
This refuge she had been forced to quit, in order to take her place in the great world--that great world which had so much in it that was terrifying to her.
Then she had sought a woman's heart that could understand her, and a manly face that might serve her for an ideal.
And she had found them both--the noble-hearted friend, who had been so good, so kind to her, far better and kinder than she had dared to hope; and the idolized youth, of whose heart and mind the world itself had even grander and finer things to say than she herself had ever lavished upon him.

And this woman, and this idol of a man were spouses--and he happiest of spouses too! What must her portion be now?
She must be the dumb witness of that very bliss which she pictured to herself so vividly.