Nothing but deep attention.  The wrist was gently laid down, and the doctor’s hand passed lightly over the white arm.  Softly it touched the forehead, and lay beneath the straying curl.  There is no expression yet; but he takes the wrist again, and, laying one hand beneath it, he touches the pulse.  Softly, like the first glance of moonlight on the dark waters, a smile is seen on that kind face.  There is something else besides the smile.  Large tears dropped from the physician’s eyes; tears that he did not think to wipe away.  He stooped towards the fragile sufferer, and gently as the morning air breathes upon the drooping violet, he kissed her brow.  “Alice, sweet one,” he said, “God has given you to us again.”

Where is that mother?  Has she heard those cheering words?  She hears them, and is gone; gone even from the side of her only one.  The soul, when there is too much joy, longs for God.  She must lay her rich burden at the mercy-seat.  Now, that mother kneels, but utters no word.  The incense of her heart knows no language and needs none; for God requires it not.  The sacrifice of praise from a rejoicing heart, is a grateful offering that he accepts.

“Miss Anna,” said Phillis, with trembling voice, but beaming eye, “go to bed now; days and nights you have been up.  How can you stand it?  The doctor says she is a great deal better, but she may be ill for a good while yet, and you will give out.  I will stay with her if you will take a sleep.”

“Sleep;” said Mrs. Weston.  “No, no, faithful Phillis not yet; joy is too new to me.  God for ever bless you for your kindness to me and my child.  You shall go home and sleep, and to-night, if she continue to do well, I will trust her with you, and take some rest myself.”

Mr. Weston awoke to hear glad tidings.  Again and again, through the long day, he repeated to himself his favorite Psalm, “Praise the Lord, oh my soul.”

Miss Janet’s joy, deep but silent, was visible in her happy countenance.  Nor were these feelings confined to the family; every servant on the estate made his master’s joy his own.  They sorrowed with him when he sorrowed, but now that his drooping head was lifted up, many an honest face regarded him with humble congratulation, as kindly received as if it had come from the highest in the land.

CHAPTER XVII.

Alice steadily, though slowly, improved; and Phillis again employed herself with her children and her work.  Things had gone on very well, with one of her daughter’s constant superintendence; but Bacchus had taken advantage of being less watched than usual, and had indulged a good deal, declaring to himself that without something to keep up his spirits he should die, thinking about Miss Alice.  Phillis, lynx-eyed as she always was, saw that such had been the case.