"No," he said, " I should only crowd you.
Good-by. Good-by, Fermor."

Fermor looked after him sourly. He disliked
him, and his presence at that house; yet, of all
the men whom he had ever known, this one
alone seemed to intimidate him.

"I should only crowd you too," he said, with
an ironical bow to Mrs. Fermor. " Don't let
me interfere with your arrangements."

Mrs. Fermor was just saying, " But, Charles,
Charles! I want to explain—" when he turned
and walked away. She threw herself back, and
bit her red lips. " Very well," she said. " Let
him go! I wish I had told him openly that I had
asked Mr. Romaine in. "Why should I not?
I am not a child, and if he treats me this
way—— "

She drove home and came again that night for
her first vigil. She was in a tremor of excitement.
A great business was before her. She
had dressed herself for the task, and got lamps,
books, fire, arm-chair, everything, ready with
earnest preparation. By ten or eleven, she was
sitting there alone—the attendant with the curl
volutes had resigned wounded, not to say angry
—a little faithful sentry, with bright wakeful
eyes, in an arm-chair sentry-box. She was
determined not to sleep on her post. Pauline was
tossing there beside her. The crisis the medical
visitor had wished for was at hand; but presently
she became quiet and seemed to sleep. Joy
and hope filled Mrs. Fermor's heart. Her trust
and affection had increased with her attendance.
She had never read the wicked Laurence Sterne,
or she might have seen in his gay Sentimental
Travels that " You take a withering twig and
put it in the ground; and then you water it,
because you have planted it." But Mr. Romaine
had lent her a transcendental French romance,
called " L' Amour Spirituel." (Alas! did she not
occasionally lift her eyes ruefully, and strain them
backwards to the days of " Roger le Garçon?")
And this was so dreary and " spiritual" in its sense
of the peculiar relations of those who loved each
other all through its pages, that the long-lashed
eyelids began to droop, and by one o'clock the
sentry was sleeping soundly on her post.

She woke up suddenly, startled by the sound
of some one talking. There was Pauline, sitting
half up in her bed, her long rich hair down over her
shoulders like a veil, her eyes flashing like glowing
coals, and her arms beating back the curtains
beside her. In terror, Mrs. Fermor half ran
towards the door—then came back—thinking
how late it was, and tried to soothe her. The
glowing eyes fixed themselves suddenly on her.
The fingers pointed at her, trembling.

"Send for her," said Pauline; " quick—send
for her, and see, when she comes, keep her until
I come down to her."

"Send for whom?" said Mrs. Fermor, soothing
her. " For whom, darling? Lie down, do,
dearest—there."

"Keep her!" said Pauline, struggling, " until
I come down to her. I wish to settle with her—
with them all. But with her and her husband
first."

A little terrified, again she tried to soothe her.
" Do lie down," she said; " you must, indeed."

"I must tell you," said Pauline, confidentially.
"They don't suspect—and she, the wife,
actually thinks I have a sort of affection for her."
And Pauline laughed.

Greatly alarmed, Mrs. Fermor let her go, and
shrunk away. "But who do you mean?" she
said.

"Fermor—the Fermors," she said, mournfully;
" he who destroyed her—our Violet—put her to
death with his own hands—took away her sweet
life. Was it not a cruel and most dreadful
murder? Was it not? And yet they hang people
every day. But listen to me. I can tell you
something. We are on their track—his and his
wife's."

"But what harm has she done you?" said the
other.

"Harm!" said Pauline, with a half shriek.
" Who are you that ask me? Come closer. I
can tell you," added Pauline, slowly and doubtfully,
"there is something about you very like
her! Ah!" she said, again beating the curtains,
" she is not far off! Send her to me quick, or I
shall get up and find her myself."

Dreadfully shocked and terrified, Mrs. Fermor
ran to the bell and rang it. In a very short
time the brother and some of the servants were
in the room. But Mrs. Fermor did not watch
again.

The doctor was right. The crisis had come
and was past. Pauline began to recover. In
three weeks, he said, rubbing his hands, " We
are gaining strength, eh?" And certainly,
accepting that community of expression, it must
be said there was a sort of strength in which he
had gained sensibly since the commencement of
her illness. Later on, he said, " I don't see why
we should not be kept up by the strongest
beef-tea and generous port wine?" Later on
still, he said, " I think we shall do—we are
pretty sure to do;" and, accepting the community
of the expression as before, it must be said that
he had done very well indeed.

He had said, "We might be got down for an
hour or two to the drawing-room, but mind, we
mustn't over-do it;" and Pauline in consequence
had come down, and was sitting in the drawing-
room.

The doctor had come in person to superintend
this critical juncture, and looked on with pride at
her as she sat on the sofa. He seemed to hint
that without this supervision fatal results would
have taken place. " We got her down wonderfully,"
he said. " It was critical. And at one
moment—on the lobby there—I had misgivings."
The usual amber acknowledgment was introduced
in the usual guilty way; but he whispered,
" Not to day!" No, no. This was a sort of gala
or festival. There was a common link of
sympathy running through us all, and why deny
us the luxury of indulging our feelings.