"Lizzie," said he, at last, "I sent for you to look at you.--You are
more wondrously beautiful than ever. Your hair is brown,--like--like
nothing; your eyes are blue; your neck is white. Well, well!"
He lay perfectly motionless, but for his eyes. They wandered over her
with a kind of peaceful glee, like sunbeams playing on a statue. Poor
Ford lay, indeed, not unlike an old wounded Greek, who at falling dusk
has crawled into a temple to die, steeping the last dull interval in
idle admiration of sculptured Artemis.
"Ah, Lizzie, this is already heaven!" he murmured.
"It will be heaven when you get well," whispered Lizzie.