lothes to be bled in--for lie
in bed I would not, after six o'clock; and even that was great laziness.

I looked at my right hand, whose grasp had been like that of a
blacksmith's vice; and it seemed to myself impossible that this could
be John Ridd's. The great frame of the hand was there, as well as the
muscles, standing forth like the guttering of a candle, and the broad
blue veins, going up the back, and crossing every finger. But as
for colour, even Lorna's could scarcely have been whiter; and as for
strength, little Ensie Doone might have come and held it fast. I laughed
as I tried in vain to lift the basin set for bleeding me.

Then I thought of all the lovely things going on out-of-doors just now,
concerning which the drowsy song of the bees came to me. These must
be among the thyme, by the sound of their great content. Therefore the
roses must be in blossom, and the woodbine, and clove-gilly-flower; the
cherries on the wall must be turning red, the yellow Sally must be on
the brook, wheat must be callow with quavering bloom, and the early
meadows swathed with hay.

Yet here was I, a helpless creature quite unfit to stir among them,
gifted with no sight, no scent of all the changes that move our love,
and lead our hearts, from month to month, along the quiet path of life.
And what was worse, I had no hope of caring ever for them more.

Presently a little knock sounded through my gloomy room, and supposing
it to be the doctor, I tried to rise and make my bow. But to my surprise
it was little Ruth, who had never once come to visit me, since I
was placed under the doctor's hands. Ruth was dressed so gaily, with
rosettes, and flowers, and what not, that I was sorry for her bad
manners; and thought she was come to conquer me, now that Lorna was done
with.

Ruth ran towards me with sparkling eyes, being rather short of sight;
then suddenly she stopped, and I saw entire amazement in her face.

'Can you receive visitors, Cousin Ridd?--why, they never told me of
this!' she cried: 'I knew that you were weak, dear John; but not that
you were dying. Whatever is that basin for?'

'I have no intention of dying, Ruth; and I like not to talk about it.
But that basin, if you must know, is for the doctor's purpose.'

'What, do you mean bleeding you? You poor weak cousin! Is it possible
that he does that still?'

'Twice a week for the last six weeks, dear. Nothing else has kept me
alive.'

'Nothing else has killed you,