He only gazed dumbly, stonily, at the dying woman.

On each side of the bed a familiar form was kneeling--Flora and Teresa.
The good old aunt, with clasped hands, was praying, her face concealed among the pillows.

Flora held the little boy in her arms; he was sleeping with his head upon her bosom.
The sick woman raised her breaking eyes towards her husband, stretched out her trembling, fevered hand, and, grasping the hand of her husband, drew it towards her panting lips, and gasped, in a scarcely audible voice, "Remember me!" Squire John did not hear, he did not understand what she said to him, he only held his wife's hand in both his own as if he believed that he could thereby draw her away from Death.
After an hour's heavy struggle, the feverish delirium of the sick woman began to subside, her blood circulated less fiercely, her hands were no longer so burning hot, her breathing grew easier.
She began to look about her calmly and recognize every one.

She spoke to those about her in a quiet, gentle voice; the tormenting sweat had vanished from her face.
"My husband, my dear husband!" she said, casting a look full of feeling upon Squire John.
Her husband rejoiced within himself, thinking it a sign of amendment; but the doctor shook his head, he knew it was a sign of death.
Next, the sick woman turned towards Flora.

Her friend guessed the meaning of her inquiring look, and held the little child nestling on her bosom to the sick woman's lips.