It showed to be a fine, bright day the following morning. Emma got up early with an equally bright spirit. Mr. Knightley's injury worried her greatly, but his being in good humor had compensated for it. Emma couldn't help smiling to herself while recalling his sometimes innocent, even boyish expression when he wanted her attentions.

Mr. Knightley had been superior to her in almost every respect all her life, and she was so used to his lectures and being her mentor no matter how from time to time she irritated or teased him. It touched her softly when Mr. Knightley appeared so at home and genuinely content under her care.

John had taken off for London after breakfast at Mr. Knightley's urging, "Matters as trifling as this shouldn't bother a man of sense. Get back to Isabella and your clients. Nothing needs to be worried about when I'm remaining at Hartfield. "

Mr. Weston, on behalf of his wife and himself, called in the mid-morning and was received upstairs. Mr. Knightley inquired after Mrs. Weston while Mr. Weston expressed their unaffected greetings and asked Mr. Knightley's opinions on a few parish businesses during his short visit.

Mr. Woodhouse accompanied Mr. Knightley quite a few hours through the day when Emma was busily engaged in receiving the incessant visitors who was coming to show their concern for Mr. Knightley. Emma, as Mr. Knightley's proxy, received and promised to deliver their best wishes to the widely respected man as well as conveyed Mr. Knightley's gratitude and apologies of not being able to be present to their kindest neighbors.

When it seemed that the whole village had come and gone, Emma heaved a big sigh of relief and hurried upstairs. The room was quiet as was expected since it's the time of day for Mr. Woodhouse to take a nap. Emma tiptoed to the bedside to check on Mr. Knightley whom she presumed probably fell asleep too.

He did, lying elegantly in bed with eyes closed. Sun shining, fragrance wafting, Emma stood and enjoyed the sight for a moment before remembering there's something she wanted to ask Riley. But Mr. Knightley opened his bleary eyes when she was about to tiptoe out.

"I thought you were sleeping."

"I was."

"Sorry I woke you up."

"You didn't. I don't want to sleep right now."

"Why not?"

"Just don't."

"You are always known as a sensible man by the whole world."

"So what?"

"A sensible man knows he should sleep now for his body's sake."

Mr. Knightley blinked, Emma raised her eyebrows.

"Were you leaving?"

"No, I'm not leaving." Emma abandoned her thought about finding Riley, stepped closer.

"Will you leave if I sleep?"

"No, I will not leave when you sleep." Emma sat in the nearby armchair.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Mr. Knightley searched her face incredulously for a second before closing his eyes, but opened again almost at once. "What if you are not here when I awake?"

"I'll be the first object you see when you open your eyes, I swear." Emma tucked him up and reassured firmly.

Mr. Knightley pursed his lips and shut his eyes, falling asleep immediately.

For half an hour Emma did nothing but watch him sleep, as though it was the most natural, most important thing for her to do in the rest of her life. When a dark cloud floated across the sun, casting a shadow over the bright room, it shadowed her too.

In the next half an hour Emma fell asleep herself, curling up in the chair. So when Mr. Knightley did wake up, the first thing he saw was Emma sleeping by his side. A picture he had seen a million times in his dreams, the dreams he was never willing to awaken from.

...

"What are you doing? Mr. Knightley?" When Emma settled her father to bed and got back, Mr. Knightley was hiding under the covers, leaving only two eyes looking at her.

He made no answer.

Emma walked over and sat on the bed, reaching out to remove the blanket muffling his nose and mouth.

He resisted it by clutching the blanket tightly.

Emma tensed up at first, but soon eased off by searching his eyes carefully, seeing no seriousness in them. "So what is it, Mr. Knightley?"

"I don't want you to see me." His voice was muffled against the covers.

"Why?" Emma widened her eyes curiously.

"I'm ugly now."

"Who told you, Riley?"

"He certainly dared not. No one, but I know."

"No, Mr. Knightley, you are not ugly, not at all. On the contrary, you're the handsomest man I have ever beheld." Emma suppressed her chuckles, trying again to pull down the covers.

"I am. I can feel the scars on my face."

"Even if you were, I have seen too much of you to be scared." Emma teased him.

"So I actually am."

"No, you are not!" Emma picked up a hand mirror from the night stand and let him admire himself in it. "See? Just a few scratches and abrasions which will soon be thoroughly gone. Not a trace will be left on your handsome face."

The swelling had died away under Dr. Perry's treatments while the remaining faded colors only recalled his braveness and recommended his manliness.

"It must be horrified in the first place." Mr. Knightley examined himself in the mirror.

"Uh-huh, a little worse."

"John must be glad when he yesterday saw me."

"What do you mean by that? I could only see his anxiety and worry." Emma turned confused.

"He always envied me because I'm handsomer than him."

Emma giggled violently at Mr. Knightley's statement, almost choked, "Are you serious? I must write to Isabella to confirm it."

"Please do it later, I cannot fight him at present."

Emma managed hard to cease her laughter, and perceived that Mr. Knightley was watching her with delight, eyes glinting.

Involuntarily she colored, with a hope that the candle lights could cover it for her, she pointed out, "Mr. Knightley, it's time for you to sleep."

"Ten more minutes." He prayed.

"Well, ten more minutes." Emma found it's harder and harder to refuse him anything.

"Tell me a bedtime story, Emma."

"Bedtime story?" Emma could hardly believe her ears.

"You have ever made me an offer of that, but you never fulfilled it."

"Have I?" Emma frowned, trying to recall something from memory.

"Yes, you were thirteen years old then, and I was taking a nap in the sitting room."

"Then why didn't I do it?"

"You read me a Shakespear instead."

"And you remembered all of these after so many years."

"I suppose I did."

"Well then, which story do you want? The one for Henry, or the one for John?"

"I want the one for George, Emma."