So she sat the long days and longer nights away, by the side of this man
she loved so hopelessly, bathing his fevered brow, holding his parched
hand, and lingering fondly over the flushed, unconscious face.

He sank lower and lower day by day--so very low that the physician said
he could do no more. He must leave the case. There was nothing for it but
to wait with patience the workings of nature.

At last, the day came when the ravings of delirium subsided and a deadly
stupor intervened. It was the crisis of the disease. The sundown would
decide, Dr. Grayson said; he would be better, or death would ensue.

Alexandrine heard his opinion in stony silence. She sat by the bed's-head
now, calm and silent; her powers of self-control were infinite. Her
mother came in to watch for the change, as did several of Archer's
friends, heretofore excluded. She was not afraid for them to come;
there was no danger of Mr. Trevlyn criminating himself now. He had not
spoken or moved for twelve hours.

The time passed slowly. The sun crept down the west. The ticking of the
watch on the stand was all that broke the silence of the room. The last
sun ray departed--the west flamed with gold and crimson, and the amber
light flushed with the hue of health the white face on the pillow.
Alexandrine thought she saw a change other than that the sunset light
brought, and bent over him.

His eyes unclosed--he looked away from her to the vase of early spring
flowers on the centre-table. His lips moved--she caught the whispered
word with a fierce pang at the heart: