do. Since the day you left she has neither eaten anything nor slept.”
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed he, at once coming to full consciousness, “I will no longer detain her, take care of her until I myself—which will be soon—can watch over her! Rise, my beloved! Go and rest, so that I may soon, very soon, see you again, my child, my soul's peace and health!” and he stroked her head caressingly; but it did not move; it lay heavily on the white coverlet:—little Elsa slept. It was now three days and nights since she had taken rest.
He gently raised her head; kissed her forehead, her eyes and her lips; she looked at him as in a magnetic sleep, smiled and, half unconscious, allowed me to lead her away. She now slept for four hours. Just at twelve o'clock she started up, still half asleep, and said “Bouillon!”
“Very good, my child!” I replied, “you shall have it to take it into him, but now sit down and collect yourself, whilst I ring and have it brought hither!”
October, 27th.—I was interrupted in my narrative. But all has gone on well, in the mean time, excellently. Waldo now sits up in his easy-chair and might—I fancy—walk about and be as formerly, if it were not very amusing to him to act the convalescent, in order to see little Elsa busied about him.
“He will have some trouble with me,” she said one day at Sorrento—during the time of uncertainty—“so long as there is any possibility for me to make my escape, but as his wife I should be tolerably good. I should not make him unhappy.”
She seemed now to have accepted her part, and to
