The fever came. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. You will find it somewhere in that book. Relief flooded her. I can't give you my hand; but you may take it. ‘And if you like, I will tell you why.
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