It was late in December before Drene opened his eyes in his right
senses. He unclosed them languidly, gazed at the footboard of his
bed, then, around at the four shabby walls of his room.

"Cecile?" he said, distinctly.

The girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, and
bent over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew to
her throat.

"Dearest?" he said, inquiringly.

Then down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted hand
and laid her cheek on it, crying silently.

As for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to
wall. At last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at
her.

The next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his skin was
moist and cool and he managed to move his hand toward hers as she
bent over him.

"I want--Graylock," he whispered. The girl flushed, bent nearer,
gazing at him intently.

"Graylock," he repeated.

"Not now," she murmured, "not today. Rest for a, while."

"Please," he said, looking up at her trustfully--"Graylock. Now."

"When you are well--"

"I am--well. Please, dear."

For a while she continued sitting there on the side of his bed, his
limp hands in hers, her lips pressed against them. But he never took
his eyes from her, and in them she saw only the same wistful
expression, unchanging, trustful that she would do his bidding.