Then he heard her murmur some words in her
sleep--what were they? He could not quite distinguish them; it was
something about a Puritan maiden _Priscilla_ and _John_--he could not
catch the name--something that did not concern him, and in which he had
no part. Suddenly she held out her arms, and, in a voice he never
forgot, cried, "Oh, my love, my love!" That of course meant himself.
Down on his knees by her side went the young duke--he covered her hands
with kisses.
"My darling," he said, "you are better now, I have been alarmed about
you, Philippa; I feared that you were ill. My darling, give me a word
and a smile."
She had quite recovered herself then; she remembered that she was
Duchess of Hazlewood--wife of the generous nobleman who was at her side.
She was mistress of herself in a moment.
"Have I alarmed you?" she said. "I did feel ill; but I am better
now--quite well, in fact."
She said to herself that she had her new life to begin, and the sooner
she began it the better; so she made herself very charming to the young
duke, and he was in ecstasies over the prize he had won.
Thenceforward[3] they lived happily enough.
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