"You are the only one who did not ask me to stay," I said reproachfully.

"I know it; I know, too, that I'd be ill in your place if I could."

"How could I help loving you!" I said impetuously. "There, forgive me,"

I added hastily as I saw her look of pain and almost fright. "Remember I'm ill, delirious it may be; but whatever happens, also remember that I said I wouldn't change anything. Were it all to do over again I'd do the same. It was inevitable: I'm sane enough to know that. You are not in the least to blame."

She hung on my last words as if I were giving her absolution from a mortal sin.

"It's all a mistake. Oh, if you but knew how I regret--"

Steps were approaching. I shook my head, with a dreary glimmer of a smile.

"Good-by," I said in a whisper, and wearily closed my eyes.

Everything soon became very confused. I remembered Mr. Yocomb's helping me to my room. I saw Adah's intent, wistful look as I tried to thank her. Mrs. Yocomb's kind, motherly face changed into the features of my own mother, and then came a long blank.

CHAPTER III

RETURNING CONSCIOUSNESS

I seemed to waken as if from a long, troubled sleep. At first I was merely conscious that I was awake, and I wondered how long I had slept.

Then I was glad I was awake, and that my confused and hateful dreams, of which no distinct memory remained, had vanished. The only thing I could recall concerning them was an indefinite and oppressive sense of loss of some kind, at which I had vaguely and impotently protested.

I knew I was awake, and yet I felt too languid to open my eyes. I was little more than barely conscious of existence, and I rather enjoyed this negative condition of complete inertia. The thought floated through my mind that I was like a new-born child, that knows nothing, fears nothing, thinks nothing, but simply breathes, and I felt so tired and "gone" that I coveted an age of mere respiration.

But thought slowly kindled in a weak, fitful fashion. I first became slightly curious about myself. Why had I slept so profoundly? Why was I so nerveless and stupid after such a sleep?

Instead of answering these questions, I weakly wandered off into another train of thought. "My mind seems a perfect blank," I said to myself. "I don't remember anything; I don't know where I am, and don't much care; nor do I know what my experience will be when I fully rouse myself. This is like beginning a new existence. What shall be the first entry on the blank page of my wakening mind? Perhaps I had better rouse up and see whether I am truly alive."

And yet I did not rise, but just lay still, heavy with a strange, painless inertia, over which I puzzled in a vague, weak way.

At last I was sure I heard a child crying. Then there was a voice, that I thought I had heard before, trying to hush and rea.s.sure the child, and I began to think who they were, and yet I did not seem to care enough to open my eyes to see.

I next heard something like a low sob near me, and it caused a faint thrill among my sluggish nerves. Surely I had heard that sound before, and curiosity so far a.s.serted itself that I opened my eyes and looked wonderingly around.

The room was unfamiliar, and yet I was certain I had seen it on some previous occasion. Seated at a window, however, was a lady who soon absorbed my whole weak and wavering attention. My first thought was: "How very pretty she is!" Then, "What is she looking at so steadfastly from the window?" After a moment I mentally laughed at my stupidity.

"She's looking at the sunset. What else should she be looking at? Can I have slept all day?"

I saw her bosom heave with another convulsive sob, and that tears fast followed each other down her cheeks. I seemed to have the power of noting everything distinctly, but I couldn't understand or account for what I saw. Who was that sweet-faced girl? Beyond a doubt I had seen her before, but where? Why was she crying? Why was she in my room?

Then I thought, "It must be all imaginary; I doubt whether I am awake yet. If she were only smiling instead of crying, I would like to dream on forever. How strangely familiar her face is! I must have seen it daily for years, and yet I can't recognize it."

The loud whinny of a horse seemed to give my paralyzed memory an impetus and suggestion, by means of which I began to reconstruct the past.

"That's Old Plod!" I exclaimed mentally. "And--and--why, that's Miss Warren sitting by the window. I remember now. We were in the barn together, and I was jealous of the old horse--how absurd! Then we were in the garden, and she was laughing at me. How like a dream it all is!

It seemed as if she were always laughing, and that the birds might well stop singing to listen. Now she is crying here in my room. I half believe it's an apparition, and that if I speak it will vanish. Perhaps it is a warning that she's in trouble somewhere, and that I ought to go to her help. How lovely she looks, with her hands lying in her lap, forgetful of the work they hold, and her tearful eyes fixed on the glowing west! Her face is very pale in contrast. Surely she's only a shadow, and the real maiden is in need of my aid;" and I made an effort to rise.

It seemed exceedingly strange that I could scarcely lift my hand; but my slight movement caused her to look around, and in answer to my gaze of eager inquiry she came softly and hesitatingly toward me.

"Miss Warren," I said, "can it be you in very truth?"

"Yes," she replied, with a sudden and glad lighting up of her face, "but please don't talk."

"How you relieve me," I tried to say joyfully, but I found I could only whisper. "What the mischief--makes my voice--so weak? Do you know--that I had the odd--impression--that you were an apparition--and had come to me--as a token--that--you were in trouble--and I tried to rise--to go to your aid--then it seemed yourself--that looked around. But you _are_ in trouble--why can't I get up and help you?"

She trembled, and by her gesture tried to stop my words.

"Will you do what I ask?" she said, in a low, eager tone.

I smiled as I replied, "Little need of your asking that question."

"Then please try to get well speedily; don't talk, but just keep every little grain of strength. Oh, I'm so glad you are in your right mind.

You have been very ill, but will soon get well now if only careful.

I'll call Mrs. Yocomb."

"Please don't go," I whispered. "Now that I know you--it seems so natural--that you should be here. So I've been ill--and you have taken care of me;" and I gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. "I did not know you at first--idiot!--but Old Plod whinnied--and then it all began to come back."

At the word "Old Plod" she turned hastily toward the door. Then, as if mastered by an impulse, she returned, and said, in a tone that thrilled even my feeble pulse:

"Oh, live! in mercy live, or else I can never forgive myself."

"I'll live--never fear," I replied, with a low laugh. "I'm not such a fool as to leave a world containing you."

A rich glow overspread her face, she smiled, then suddenly her face became very pale, and she even seemed frightened as she hastily left the room.

A moment later Mrs. Yocomb came in, full of motherly solicitude.

"Kind Mrs. Yocomb," I murmured, "I am glad I'm in such good hands."

"Thank G.o.d, Richard Morton," she said, in low, fervent tones, "thee's going to get well. But don't speak a word."

"Wasn't that Zillah crying?"

"Yes, she was heart-broken about thee being so sick, but she'll laugh now when I tell her thee's better. Take this, and sleep again."

"Bless her kind heart!" I said.

Mrs. Yocomb laid her finger on my lips. I saw her pour out something, which I swallowed unquestioningly, and after a moment sank into a quiet sleep.

CHAPTER IV