I cannot bear to think what my coming back to life would have been without her.
Of the alarming nature of my illness, I only know that there were several days when Richard never left the house, but waited, hour after hour, in the library below, for the news of my condition, and when even Uncle Leonard came home in the middle of the day, and walked about the house, silent and unapproachable.
One night--how well I remember it! I had been convalescent, I do not know how long; I had passed the childish state of interest in my _bouilli_, and fretfulness about my _peignoir_; my mind had begun to regain its ordinary power, and with the first efforts of memory and thought had come fearful depression and despondency.

I was so weak, physically, that I could not fight against this in the least.

Sister Madeline came to my bedside, and found me in an agony of weeping.

It was not an easy matter to gain my confidence, for I thought she knew nothing of me, and I was not equal to the mental effort of explaining myself; she was only associated with my illness.

But at last she made me understand that she was not ignorant of a great deal that troubled me.
"Who has told you ?" I said, my heart hardening itself against Richard, who could have spoken of my trouble to a stranger.
"You, yourself," she answered me.
"I have raved ?" I said.
"Yes." "And who has heard me ?" "No one else.