When she came, Susan
suddenly gave way; she was felled by the fever herself, and lay
unconscious for long weeks. Her consciousness returned to her one
spring afternoon; early spring: April,--her wedding-month. There
was a little fire burning in the small corner-grate, and the
flickering of the blaze was enough for her to notice in her weak
state. She felt that there was some one sitting on the window-side
of her bed, behind the curtain, but she did not care to know who it
was; it was even too great a trouble for her languid mind to consider
who it was likely to be. She would rather shut her eyes, and melt
off again into the gentle luxury of sleep. The next time she
wakened, the Coniston nurse perceived her movement, and made her a
cup of tea, which she drank with eager relish; but still they did not
speak, and once more Susan lay motionless--not asleep, but strangely,
pleasantly conscious of all the small chamber and household sounds;
the fall of a cinder on the hearth, the fitful singing of the half-
empty kettle, the cattle tramping out to field again after they had
been milked, the aged step on the creaking stair--old Peggy's, as she
knew. It came to her door; it stopped; the person outside listened
for a moment, and then lifted the wooden latch, and looked in.
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