"You must lie very still," I continued, "and let us make you well and
strong again, for you've made dear Sweetapple Cove now, after being
nearly 'ketched' by those dreadful seas, and I know that our little ship
is coming safely to port."

For a moment he could only close his eyes, as if the poor, little,
dawning light that was beginning to come through the windows had been too
bright for him, but his hand pressed mine again. Then he looked at me
once more, eagerly, as if he longed for other words of mine.

"No," I said. "One mustn't talk too much to people who have been so
dreadfully ill, and really I can say nothing more now. Indeed I have said
all I could, because a woman can't let her happiness fly away on account
of--of people who are too proud to speak, but--but you can whisper a word
or two."

There were three of them that came from his lips, those three thrilling
words I had despaired of ever hearing from him.

"And I also love you, John, with all my heart and soul," I answered.

Then we were very still for some time, and presently some one coughed
rather hard outside, and fumbled with the door, and the nice doctor boy
came in.

"I mustn't allow you people to talk too long," he said. "It is time he
had a good drink of milk, and after that he must have some more sleep,
and we'll have him topside up in no time."