oks as has been already described.

It is true that ere that day a great and delightful alteration in Pen's
condition had taken place. The fever, subjugated by Dr. Goodenough's
blisters, potions, and lancet, had left the young man, or only returned
at intervals of feeble intermittence; his wandering senses had settled
in his weakened brain: he had had time to kiss and bless his mother
for coming to him, and calling for Laura and his uncle (who were both
affected according to their different natures by his wan appearance, his
lean shrunken hands, his hollow eyes and voice, his thin bearded face)
to press their hands and thank them affectionately; and after this
greeting, and after they had been turned out of the room by his
affectionate nurse, he had sunk into a fine sleep which had lasted for
about sixteen hours, at the end of which period he awoke calling out
that he was very hungry. If it is hard to be ill and to loathe food, oh,
how pleasant to be getting well and to be feeling hungry--how hungry!
Alas, the joys of convalescence become feebler with increasing years, as
other joys do--and then--and then comes that illness when one does not
convalesce at all.

On the day of this happy event, too, came another arrival in Lamb Court.
This was introduced into the Pen-Warring sitting-room by large puffs of
tobacco smoke--the puffs of were followed by an individual with a cigar
in his mouth, and a carpet-bag under his arm--this was Warrington who
had run back from Norfolk, when Mr. Bows thoughtfully wrote to inform
him of his friend's calamity. But he had been from home when Bows's
letter had reached his brother's house--the Eastern Counties did not
then boast of a railway (for we beg the reader to understand that we
only commit anachronisms when we choose and when by a daring violation
of those natural laws some great ethical truth is to be advanced)--in
fine, Warrington only appeared with the rest of the good luck upon the
lucky day after Pen's convalescence may have been said to have begun.

His surprise was, after all, not very great when he found the chambers
of his sick friend occupied, and his old acquaintance the Major seated
demurely in an easy-chair (Warrington had let himself into the rooms
with his own passkey), listening, or pretending to listen, to a young
lady who was reading to him a play of Shakspeare in a low sweet voice.
The lady stopped and started, and laid down her book, at the apparition
of the tall