On the second day, only, was I allowed to see Hortense, and what a
change I saw! There was death in every feature, every curve of her
once beautiful face. She revived as usual, when I was announced, and
wanted to sit up and talk a great deal more than the attending
physician would allow, or than she was really able to do. They took
advantage of this desire of hers, to coax her to nourish herself more
than she was wont.
"If you take your prescriptions and obey orders, I shall let you have
a half-hour's conversation with your friend every day," said the
doctor one morning, in a bargaining tone; "if not" he added, pausing,
and looking at her seriously--after which he shook his head slowly and
emphatically, and said no more.
"Very well then, I will try to take them doubled if you like" she
answered faintly, directing a playful glance towards me, and breaking
into one of her old smiles. "I must talk to her!"
She could not "take them doubled," poor child, but she made heroic
efforts to swallow them as prescribed, in order that she might have
her talk with me. My poor Hortense! She never had but the one
half-hour's conversation with me, for she passed into a better world,
before the birds had learned their summer songs.
"Put away that book, and come here, my Amey" she said faintly one
afternoon, as I sat by her bedside watching with her. I closed the
volume and going nearer to her, sat on the margin of her bed, and took
her delicate hands in mine.
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