CHAPTER V.

THE STRANGER’S CONVALESCENCE.

A sensation of being suspended motionless in mid-air, with the knowledge of having been thus suspended for innumerable centuries, then a soft, floating sensation, as if he were being carried softly through space on billowy clouds; this, in turn, changing to a dreamy languor, pervaded with a consciousness of four walls and a bed, and our strange traveler had awakened from his week of fever and delirium.

There was no wonder at finding himself in this position--perhaps he had not as yet sufficiently recovered his mental strength to feel any emotion of surprise.

He only lay and stared at a damp-looking spot on the ceiling over the bed, and feebly wondered how he had managed to reach high enough to color that, and why, while he was coloring it, he had not colored it black, or blue, or green, or anything rather than that muddy brown.

After wearily revolving this in his mind for some time, he became so feebly exasperated at this haunting spot that he essayed to erase it immediately.

There was a wan, pale-looking hand lying on the counterpane in front of him. He was not distinctly conscious of its being his hand. But with an utter disregard for the rights of property, he decided on using it.

Here was a surprise, for he had no sooner thought of using the hand than it had lifted itself from the counterpane, and after fluttering in the air very much after the manner of a wounded bird, had dropped again some three or four inches from its first position.

It was trying to escape from him--there could be no doubt about that: and mingled with his aversion for that faint spot on the ceiling, there came an intense desire to obtain possession of that hand. Then he partly turned his head on the pillow, and forgot his vexation in the immensity of his second surprise.

His bed was on one side of a small, square room. Such a very small room it was, that his bed seemed to occupy the larger part of it. And yet, small as it was, it was large enough to contain a vast deal of cozy comfort.

On the side of the room opposite the bed there was an old-fashioned, red-brick fireplace, which, though small for its kind, was large enough to look ridiculously out of proportion to the size of the room.

The old-fashioned furniture--what little there was of it--was covered with a prettily checked dimity. There were one or two simple, inexpensive prints on the walls, with an occasional bunch of dried ferns or grasses.

Everything about the room was simple and inexpensive, and the few simple ornaments bore traces of home manufacture. Yet there was such an all-pervading air of homely comfort about it, such a restful look about everything in it, that it got to be quite a wonder how so very small a room could contain so much. It would have been impossible to keep from getting well in such a room.

Of course, our friend did not observe all this at this time. It took him some time to exhaust all the wonders of that little room. There was something else that riveted his attention now. This is what he saw:

A little square table in front of the red-brick fireplace, and a large, old-fashioned lamp, surmounted by an equally old-fashioned paper shade, was on the table. This he saw, only in an indistinct way, for every faculty he possessed seemed to be taken up and absorbed by that silent figure sitting on a low rocking-chair between the table and the open fire.

She had been reading, for the book was lying open on her lap, partly covered by the little brown hands lying upon it; and now she sat with her head bent forward in deep thought, and with the white light of the lamp on one soft cheek, and the rosy glow of the fire flickering over the other, she made a very pretty picture indeed.

Who was she? And how came she in his bedroom?

Even while he wondered, she laid the book upon the table, and, bending forward, proceeded to unlace and remove her shoes, exposing a very tantalizing pair of ankles during the operation. Then moving her chair so as to place the two little brown-stockinged feet on the fender, she sat staring into the fire, apparently in deep contemplation of a small, a very small hole that she had discovered in one of her stockings.

And he lay and stared, and wondered and wondered and stared. He had a mystified memory of a terrible storm and terrible suffering, but he could connect nothing of his past life with this girl. Who was she, and how came she there?

Moving his head restlessly on the pillow, he attracted her attention, and in a moment she was bending over him. She spoke to him in a low, soft, pleasant voice, but he was too astonished to attempt an answer.

Lifting his head gently from the pillow, she put a cup to his lips, and he drank, still staring at her. She was an angel--that was it. He must be dead, and that spot was where he had fallen through from the other world.

Satisfied of this, and finding nothing at all incongruous in the idea of an angel wearing calfskin shoes and brown hand-knit stockings, he sank peacefully to sleep and forgot it all.

It was bright day when he again opened his eyes. Perhaps he had been strengthened by his peaceful slumber, or, perhaps, the clear soft light of the spring morning was not as conducive of illusions as the mingled light of lamp and fireplace had been.

Or, perhaps, the change in the person of his nurse had something to do with it. At all events, he found nothing at all angelic in the tall, slatternly form of Mrs. Higgins, and accepted his drink and medicine from her with a peevish expression of discontent.

“Where am I?” he inquired feebly.

“Bright Farm,” answered his nurse concisely.

After waiting long enough for this bit of news to sift through his system, he inquired, not unreasonably, where the Bright Farm was; but to this question, though somewhat impatiently repeated, he received no answer.

Mrs. Higgins was not really ill-natured; unsympathetic, perhaps, and somewhat taciturn, but fully convinced of the dignity of her position as nurse; so when she informed him that “he wuz thar on ther bed,” and that he was to “shet his head until he got better,” she considered that she had fully covered the subject, and declined all further offers of conversation; and Doctor Conway only arrived in time to prevent his patient’s worrying himself into a raging fever.

Doctor Conway had looked on this case as an excellent bit of practice. Not that the good doctor had any doubt as to his fee, for he had none, being perfectly convinced in his own mind that there was not the remotest probability of his ever receiving any. But he had devoted himself assiduously to his patient, in the hope, perhaps, that he might the sooner get rid of him. For Conway was but mortal, and the thought of that handsome invalid lying there, monopolizing Norine’s time and attention, was not altogether conducive to the doctor’s peace of mind.

The patient was tossing uneasily on the bed when Conway bent over him. There was an instinctive dislike between them, that the doctor found difficult to conceal, and that his patient did not try to.

“Where am I?” he demanded at once.

“At Bright Farm, the residence of Mr. James Bright,” replied the doctor.

“She told me that,” said the sick man impatiently. “How far am I from Altoona?”

“About twenty-five miles,” replied Conway, astonished. “Did you come from Altoona?” he inquired in his turn.

“No,” said the other; “I was going there.”

“Where did you start from?”

“I started from near Ebensburg to cross the mountain,” shortly. “What is the nearest town?”

Conway gave him the required information.

“How soon can I go there?”

“Very soon, if you progress as rapidly as you have recently,” replied the doctor, inwardly determined to assist that progress by every means in his power. “What is your name?” he inquired.

“Percival--Clinton Percival,” responded the sick man weakly. “How long have I been here?”

“Over a week,” said Conway. “And now,” he added, “you have talked too much already. You are tired and feverish. Is there any one whom you would like to have notified of your position?”

“No.”

“Have you no friends who may be anxious about you?”

“No--none.”

Conway stared at his patient. It seemed incredible to him that any one should be so friendless.

The sick man turned his head on the pillow, muttering ungraciously the while, and Doctor Conway left the room to give further directions as to the broths and jellies that were to help Mr. Clinton Percival regain his strength.

Norine was in the kitchen, with her dimpled arms buried deep in the bread trough, and her supple form incased in an immense gingham apron.

“How is he?” she inquired, with some anxiety.

“Better, decidedly better,” returned Conway; “well enough to be very cross already, so I would not advise you to go near him.”

“My!” cried Norine, with her pretty eyebrows raised expressively, “has he been so cross as that?”

“He is somewhat impatient,” replied Conway gravely, passing his hand slowly over his head as he spoke. “Perhaps not more so than we should expect. He told me his name was Clinton Percival, and seemed ungraciously anxious to be moved as soon as possible.”

“Poor fellow!” said Norine sympathetically. “He has been so very ill, we must not expect too much from him at first. Did you find out where he belongs?” she asked, struggling with a mass of dough meanwhile.

“That is the strangest part of it. If he told the truth, it is a wonder he survived at all. He claims to have crossed the mountain from near Ebensburg. How he did it in that tremendous storm I can’t imagine. He must have wandered thirty or forty miles.”

Norine raised her hands and eyebrows in wonder at this achievement, and Mrs. Higgins, who had just come in, gave it as her opinion that “a man what thet wouldn’t kill waz borned to be hung, sure. Yer’d oughter a-brung ’im to our place, doc,” continued the old woman after this free expression of her opinion. “He couldn’t a-done no harm there.”

“Why, what harm can he do here?” inquired Norine laughingly.

The old woman shook her head ominously, but made no reply.

“Perhaps Mrs. Higgins has found her patient a little cross at times,” hazarded Conway.

Mrs. Higgins stopped in her work to emit a scornful snort.

“Yer don’t suppose I keer fer his tantrums, do yer?” she inquired scornfully. “’Tain’t thet at all. O’ course, he’s a little peevish jest when he’s a-gettin’ well--thet’s nat’ral. All men feel so arter they’s been a-shet up fer awhile--leastways, _my_ man allers does. But, gosh! I’m too old ter let thet worry me enny,” and she wound up with an energetic snort.

Conway smiled gravely, and Norine laughed a jolly, ringing little laugh.

“What _is_ the matter with him, then?” she inquired practically. “Why are you afraid of him?”

“I ain’t afeared on him,” retorted the old woman indignantly. Then she added gravely: “I’m a heap sight more afeared o’ you.”

“Of me?” exclaimed Norine, raising her eyebrows in astonishment. “Why are you afraid of me?”

Mrs. Higgins snorted expressively and looked at Conway, who had been leaning easily against the door, an amused listener. Love is sharp-sighted, for all its proverbial blindness, and Conway understood the old woman’s meaning at once. He passed his hand slowly over his head and sighed softly.

Norine, however, was greatly mystified and stared from one to the other in amazement.

“I cannot understand you at all,” she cried pettishly. “How can this poor man harm us any? I’m sure I feel very sorry for him.”

“So do I,” interposed the doctor hastily. “He is very ill, and I am glad he is getting such good care. Whether he deserves it or not, Mrs. Higgins has taken a dislike to him, that is all.”

“Well, she ought to be ashamed of it,” said Norine indignantly. “The poor man deserves our sympathy, at least.”

“Thet’s all right, an’ I don’t deny hit,” replied the old woman. “I hain’t got nothin’ ag’in him; he ain’t a-goin’ to hurt _me_ enny. ’Tain’t likely he’ll hurt enny one, less’n hit’s you!” and Mrs. Higgins bounced out of the room indignantly.

Norine blushed hotly, and cried: “What nonsense!” But still she seemed loath to meet the doctor’s eye. So, after giving the directions that had originally brought him to the kitchen, Conway took his departure.