"Mr. Sanford," and Grey spoke with great vehemence, "you do not think Bessie will die? She must not die!" and in his voice and manner there was something which betrayed his secret to the older man, who said to him: "I hope not, Grey, God knows. Pray for her, my boy; pray earnestly. Prayer can move a mountain, or at least make a way through it. Pray for the girl you call Bessie."
To one accustomed as Grey was to take everything, however small, to God, prayer was an easy thing, and every thought was a prayer as he walked rapidly toward Miss McPherson's house.
"She is sleeping now," Miss Betsey said to him. "We trust she will be better when she wakens. It is rest she needs more than anything else. She has had a hard life so far. You have seen a great deal of her, I believe?"
"I cannot say I have seen a great deal of her, though I feel as though I had known her always. Yes, she has had a hard life. You do not think she will die?" was Grey's reply; and in his face and voice Miss Betsey detected what the rector had discovered.
"No," she said; "I do not believe she will die. Sit down and wait till she is awake."
So Grey sat down, and waited three hours, during which time the train, which would have taken him back to Boston, went rushing by, and Bessie still slept as quietly as an infant. It was Jennie who came at last and told him that she was awake and better, though too weak to see any one.
"Thank God!" Grey exclaimed, and slipping a bill into the girl's hand, he continued: "Take good care of her, Jennie, and when she is able tell her I came to see her."
"An' sure I'll tell her ivery blessed word, and that you left your love."
"I did not say that," Grey answered her, laughingly, as he bade her good-by and walked away.
For a week or more Bessie scarcely spoke or moved, it was such happiness to rest, with every wish anticipated either by her aunt or Jennie, whose voice was a whasper most of the time, and who was learning to be more quiet and subdued. At last, however, Bessie began to talk, and said to Jennie one day: "I believe I am getting better, and I am afraid I am not as glad as I ought to be--the world holds so little for me, and so few who care for me beside auntie and you."
"An', faith," Jennie began, "it's not for ye to be sayin' the likes of that. Nobody to care for you, indade, with the gentry comin' every day to inquire for you, the praste a readin' his prayers in this very room, and the foine gintleman who was on the ship a sittin' down stairs three mortal hours waitin' to know if you waked up dead or alive, and thankin' God when it was alive I told him you was."