For the rest, all through the pain and impotence and vague mental
wanderings of the days that followed, I had a restful, comforting
consciousness that a kind, loving face, like the lamp of my salvation,
was hanging ever over me--always it was Grandma Keeler's face, though it
seemed to have grown strangely young and fair, and the eyes that followed
me with such a loving, tireless, wistful expression in them were like
other eyes that I had known, and the watcher's voice was clear and
musical, with a youthful repression in it. Still, somehow, it was
Grandma's face, _her_ eyes, _her_ voice--and when at last, I woke one
morning very weak, but able to recognize clearly all the familiar objects
in the room, it was Grandma Keeler indeed, who sat by my bed, beaming
gloriously upon me.
"Is it most school time, Grandma?" I inquired, feebly, slowly
concentrating my gaze on her face.
"Oh, laws, no!" said Grandma, with cheerful emphasis, and then continued
talking in her quiet monotone. I hardly heard what she said. I was
painfully endeavoring to pick up the lost thread of my consciousness
where I had left it on that night when I put my room in order and went so
wearily to bed.
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