It appeared to Lynde to be in the middle of the night, though it was in fact on the edge of daybreak, that he was awakened by some one knocking softly at his door.  He lighted a match, and by its momentary flicker saw Mr. Denham standing on the threshold.

“Ruth wishes to see you,” he said indistinctly and with an indecisive air.  “As nearly as we can gather, that is what she wants.  Come quickly!”

Without waiting for a reply Mr. Denham turned and passed through the hall.  Lynde followed in silence.  He was less surprised than agitated by the summons; it was of a piece with the dream from which he had been roused.

There were candles burning on the mantel-piece of the chamber, and the dawn was whitening the window-panes.  In that weird, blended light the face of the sick girl shone like a fading star.  Lynde was conscious of no other presence, though Mrs. Denham and Dr. Pendegrast with a third person were standing near the chimney-place.  Ruth raised her eyes and smiled upon Lynde as he came in; then her lids closed and did not open again, but the smile stayed in a dim way on her features, and a flush almost too faint to be perceived crept into her cheeks.  Lynde stooped by the bed and took one of Ruth’s hands.  She turned her head slightly on the pillow, and after a moment her lips moved as if she were making an effort to speak.  Lynde remained immobile, fearing to draw breath lest a word should escape his ear.  But she did not speak.  As he stood there listening in the breathless stillness, the flame of the candles burned fainter and fainter in the increasing daylight; a bird twittered somewhere aloft; then the sunshine streamed through the windows, and outside all the heights were touched with sudden gold.

[Illustration:  But she did not speak]

Dr. Pendegrast approached Lynde and rested one finger on his arm.  “You had better go now,” the doctor whispered hastily.  “I will come to you by and by.”

Lynde was sitting on the side of the bed in his own room in the broad daylight.  He had been sitting motionless in one posture for an hour—­ perhaps two hours, he could not tell how long—­when Dr. Pendegrast opened the door without pausing to knock.  Lynde felt the cold creeping about his heart.

“Doctor,” he said desperately, “don’t tell me!”

“Mr. Lynde,” said Dr. Pendegrast, walking up to the bedside and speaking very slowly, as if he were doubtful of his own words and found it difficult to articulate them, “a change has taken place, but it is a change for the better.  I believe that Ruth will live.”

“She will live!”

“We thought she was sinking; she thought so herself, the poor child.  You were worth a thousand doctors to her, that’s my belief.  Mrs. Denham was afraid to tell her you had gone to Paris to fetch us, thinking it would excite her.  Ruth imagined that her aunt had offended you, and thought you had gone not to return.”