e fabrics of jelly and fragrant ice; and even
Henry's rival, who had been so strong against the insolence of a
practitioner showing no testimonials, no sooner came under the
influence of the yearning, entreating, but ever-patient eyes, than his
attendance became assiduous, his interest in the case ardent.

Henry himself was in the camp, before Vicksburg, with his hands too
full of piteous cases of wounds and fever to attempt the most hurried
visit.

'Sister, dear,' said the soft slow voice, one day when Averil had been
hoping her patient was asleep, 'are you writing to Henry?'

'Yes, my darling. Do you want to say anything?'

'Oh yes! so much;' and the eyes grew bright, and the breath gasping;
'please beg Henry--tell Henry--that I must--I can't bear it any longer
if I don't--'

'You must what, dear child? Henry would let you do anything he could.'

'Oh, then, would he let me speak about dear Leonard?' and the child
grew deadly white when the words were spoken; but her eyes still sought
Averil's face, and grew terrified at the sight of the gush of tears.
'O, Ave, Ave, tell me only--he is not dead!' and as Averil could only
make a sign, 'I do have such dreadful fancies about him, and I think I
could sleep if I only knew what was really true.'

'You shall, dear child, you shall, without waiting to hear from Henry;
I know he would let you.'

And only then did Averil know the full misery that Henry's decision had
inflicted on the gentle little heart, in childish ignorance, imagining
fetters and dungeons, even in her sober waking moods, and a prey to
untold horrors in every dream, exaggerated by feverishness and
ailment--horrors that, for aught she knew, might be veritable, and made
more awful by the treatment of his name as that of one dead.

To hear of him as enjoying the open air and light of day, going to
church, singing their own favourite hymn tunes, and often visited by
Dr. May, was to her almost as great a joy as if she had heard of him at
liberty. And Averil had a more than usually cheerful letter to read to
her, one written in the infirmary during his recovery. His letters to
her were always cheerful, but this one was particularly so, having been
written while exhilarated by the relaxations permitted to
convalescents, and by enjoying an unwonted amount of conversation with
the chaplain and the doctor.

'So glad, so glad,' Minna was heard murmuring to herself again and
again; her rest was calmer than