herself;
and as she saw the half-closed fingers stretch, and the head turn, she
leant forward, and touched her father's hand.

Dr. May was on his feet even before those brown eyes of Leonard's had
had time to unclose; and as Mary was silently moving to the door, he
made a sign to her to wait.

She stood behind the curtain. 'You are better for your sleep.'

'Yes, thank you--much better.'

The Doctor signed towards a tray, which stood by a spirit-lamp, on a
table in the further corner. Mary silently brought it, and as quietly
obeyed the finger that directed her to cordial and spoon--well knowing
the need--since that unserviceable right arm always made these
operations troublesome to her father.

'Have you been here all night, Dr. May?'

'Yes; and very glad to see you sleeping so well.'

'Thank you.' And there was something that made Mary's eyes dazzle with
tears in the tone of that 'Thank you.' The Doctor held out his hand
for the spoon she had prepared, and there was another 'Thank you;'
then, 'Is Ave there?'

'No, I made her go to bed. She is quite well; but she wanted sleep
sorely.'

'Thank you,' again said the boy; then with a moment's pause, 'Dr. May,
tell me now.'

Mary would have fled as breaking treacherously in upon such tidings;
but a constraining gesture of her father obliged her to remain, and
keep the cordial ready for immediate administration.

'My dear, I believe you know,' said Dr. May, bending over him--and Mary
well knew what the face must be saying.

'Both?' the faint tones asked.

'Recollect the sorrow that they have been spared,' said Dr. May in his
lowest, tenderest tones, putting his hand out behind him, and signing
to Mary for the cordial.

'She could not have borne it;' and the feebleness of those words made
Mary eager to put the spoon once more into her father's hands.

'That is right, my boy. Think of their being together;' and Mary heard
tears in her father's voice.

'Thank you,' again showed that the cordial was swallowed; then a pause,
and in a quiet, sad, low tone, 'Poor Ave!'

'Your mending is the best thing for her.'

Then came a long sigh; and then, after a pause, the Doctor knelt down,
and said the Lord's Prayer--the orphan's prayer, as so many have felt
it in the hour of bereavement.

All was quite still, and both he and Mary knelt on for some short
space; then he arose in guarded stillness, hastily wiped away the tears
that were streaming over his face,