own freedom. She was impatient that he should awake, and fell asleep
imagining various modes of making her communication to him. Exhausted by
mental agitation even more than by watching, she slept long and heavily.
When she awoke, Ernest was shading the window at her side, through which
the sun was shining brightly into the room. As she moved he looked at
her kindly, and said:

"I am afraid I awoke you, Meeta, when I meant only to prolong your sleep
by shutting out this light."

"I have slept long enough," was all that Meeta could say. The old Rainer
was awake, and dreading above all things some allusions from him to the
supposed relations of Ernest and herself, she hastened from the room and
busied herself in the preparation of breakfast. Having seen that meal
placed upon the table, she returned to the sick room and begged that
Ernest would pour out his own coffee, while she did some things that
were essential to his father's comfort. She lingered till Ernest came to
see whether he could take her place, and then, as the old man slept
peacefully, and she could make no further excuse, she accompanied him
back to the table. The breakfast, a mere form to Meeta at least,
proceeded in silence, or with only a casual remark from Ernest, scarcely
heard by her, on the weather, the rapidity with which he had travelled,
or his father's condition. Suddenly Meeta seemed to arouse herself as
from a deep reverie:

"Why do you not talk to me of Sophie?" she said, attempting to speak
gayly, though one less embarrassed than Ernest could not have failed to
note the tremulousness of her voice, and the quivering of the pallid lip
which vainly strove to smile.

But Meeta's agitation was as nothing to that of Ernest. For a moment he
gazed upon her as though spell-bound, then dropping his face into his
clasped hands, sat actually shivering before her. It was plain that
Ernest had not lightly estimated his obligations to her. If he had
sinned against them he had not despised them, and this conviction gave
new strength to Meeta. She rose for the hour superior to every selfish
emotion. Laying her hand upon his arm, she said, gently:

"Be not so agitated, Ernest; can you not regard me as your friend, and
talk to me as you did in old days of all that disturbs you; and why
should you be disturbed at my speaking of--of your Sophie? You do not
suppose that--you know that--in short, Ernest, we cannot be expected to
feel now as we did five years