"Soft! Soft! Good! Good!" muttered Bernard presently. "Go on!"
Grisell had acquired something of that strange almost magical touch
of Sister Avice, and Bernard lay still under her hand. Her mother,
who was quite worn out, moved to her own bed, and fell asleep, while
the snores of the Baron proclaimed him to have been long appeased.
The boy, too, presently was breathing softly, and Grisell's attitude
relaxed, as her prayers and her dreams mingled together, and by and
by, what she thought was the organ in Wilton chapel, and the light of
St. Edith's taper, proved to be the musical rush of the incoming
tide, and the golden sunrise over the sea, while all lay sound asleep
around her, and she ventured gently to withdraw into her own room.
That night was Grisell's victory, though Bernard still held aloof
from her all the ensuing day, when he was really the better and
fresher for his long sleep, but at bed-time, when as usual the pain
came on, he wailed for her to rub him, and as it was still daylight,
and her father had gone out in one of the boats to fish, she ventured
on singing to him, as she rubbed, to his great delight and still
greater boon to her yearning heart. Even by day, as she sat at work,
the little fellow limped up to her, and said, "Grisly, sing that
again," staring hard in her face as she did so.
CHAPTER XI--BERNARD
I do remember an apothecary, -
And hereabouts he dwells.
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