read—the blood, rushing to her head, almost
blinded her—but she had caught, the meaning:

"Beware of the step you are about to take
A caprice, bitterly repeated, estranged for a
moment two hearts long and loyally united.
But for you, all had been well. Forego the
hollow conquest you think you have made. It
will be a noble sacrifice and will be as nobly
rewarded."

There was no signature. But a legion of
witnesses could not have brought home the truth
more indisputably to Esther's bursting heart.

"This, this, then, was the coming horror!"
she cried aloud. "I felt it; I was warned. Yet
still, so sudden! My love so perfect, my hope
so near! I—I will go in, and seek—"

With faint uncertain steps she made her way
to her chamber. Hardly entered, she was seized
with a convulsive nervous spasm, so violent
that, unable to reach her bed, she sank upon
the floor. In doing so, she struck her hand
slightly on the ground. Instantly an acute
pang, commencing from the scar, shot upwards,
till it ended with a piercing shock, as if a nail
had been driven into her very brow. The faintness
increased.

"Water" she thought. "If I could only
reach the water!"

She did manage it; but, although longing to
cool her burning throat, dashed the half-filled
goblet from her. A globe, rising with a twisting,
vermicular sensation in her throat, threatened
suffocation. She tried to cry out, but could
not. She could only mutter:

"Must I die? What—what is this?"

As if in awful answer, a pang, more severe
than any that had preceded it, shot from her
wounded hand, succeeded by a convulsive tremor
pervading her whole frame. She looked at the
scar. It was red and angry, seemed ready to
open, and even now giving out an ichorous
fluid. The truth flashed upon her.

"I am lost," gasped the unhappy girl, sinking
on her knees. "The mad dog!"

After a second or two, she rose and made two
or three wild steps towards the door, as if to
seek for aid; but, if so, the consciousness that
no human help could now avail stopped her,
and her thoughts flew to George. Even in
that hour of anguish one comforting thought
visited her. It was for him she had incurred
this end.

But who—oh, who should tell him? What
was to be done? Might Heaven send the needful
strength, and keep her senses clear! She
scarcely doubted of the latter, for, acquainted
with the ordinary phenomena of this fearful
disease, she recollected that the senses and faculties
are rather stimulated by it than impaired.

Although medicine could not cure, it might
alleviate, might retard. With a calmness that
astonished herself, Esther laid out her scheme;
for time was brief indeed, and nothing must go
wrong. She sent word to her aunt that she
should return to breakfast in half an hour; then,
putting on her thickest veil, hurried to the
house of the village doctor.

Mr. Woford was a young practitioner, with a
wife who looked like a child, and several children,
who looked as if they had no business there at
all. He was alone in his surgery—he generally
was and thither Esther proceeded.

Throwing back her veil, and displaying her
flushed cheeks and glistening eyes, the visitor
held out her hand:

"Can you tell me, sir, what is the matter
with me?" she asked him, steadily.

Mr. Woford smiled at the abruptness, but his
look changed as he felt her galloping pulse, and
remarked the tokens, manifest even to him, of
unwonted disarrangement. There was fever,
he thought, but his opinion inclined to hysteria,
and the questions he put to her were inspired
thereby, He recommended repose of mind and
body, and promised to send immediately what
he considered needful.

He quickly prepared the things of which he
spoke, added some careful directions, and would
have attended her home, but this she declined.

Mrs. Turnover was watching for her darling,
impatient to show her something that, awaited
her approval. Esther mechanically followed
the good lady, but the sight of the object—her
own bridal dress laid out in state was, in her
overwrought condition, too much for her.
Uttering a loud despairing shriek, she sank upon
the ground, surrendering herself for the
moment to all the grief and horror of her position.
Disguise was no longer possible. It would
soon become necessary, for the safety of
others, to warn those around of the probably
increasing violence of the paroxysms.

The grief and terror of poor Mrs. Turnover
would have turned her brain, but that,
fortunately, the honest soul could not be brought
wholly to believe that there was literally no
hope—that a creature so fair and young, so
innocent, so cherished, must die without remedy,
and such a death! But the intrepid girl
herself was the first to regain composure. She
had to make the most of the brief interval of
tranquillity the sedatives had obtained, and at
once began her melancholy task.

She wrote to George, in terms such as the
purest affection alone could dictate, informing
him frankly of her condition, and entreating
him to come to her that night. This letter
was not to be despatched to him till past noon;
she had something else to do before they met.

Accordingly he only received it on his
return from an afternoon ride, with what feelings
I shall not attempt to describe. In his
despairing anguish, one idea, almost like an
inspiration, flashed across his mind. He
remembered having heard, or read, that an eminent
London practitioner, Sir Albert Ray, had, in
his experience, met with two cases of admitted
rabies, which had, notwithstanding, resulted
in a cure. Catching desperately at this straw,
he despatched an instant express to London,
imploring Sir Albert, who was an old friend
and schoolmate of his father, to hasten to
Rosedale with all possible speed. His fingers
could hardly form the terrible word that was to