Certain reviving measures were tried by him, and apparently with success. The bluish whiteness of the girl's face changed to a more natural color, her teeth relaxed, her eyelids drooped. Evandale drew a quick breath of relief when he saw the change. He was able to pour a few drops of brandy down her throat, to chafe the unresisting hands, to bathe the cold forehead with some hope of affording relief. He did all as carefully and tenderly as if he had been a woman, and he did not seem to wish for any other aid. Indeed he had locked the door when he first came in, as if to guard against the chance of interruption. Presently he heard her sigh; then tears appeared on her lashes and stole down her cheeks. Her limbs fell into their natural position, and she put up her hand at last with a feeble, uncertain movement, as if to wipe away her tears. Evandale drew back a little--almost out of her sight. He did not want to startle her. "Where am I?" she said, in a tremulous voice. "You are at the Rectory, Miss Vane," said Maurice Evandale quietly. "You need not be at all alarmed; you may have heard that I am something of a doctor, and, as I found that you did not seem well, I took the liberty of bringing you here." "I don't remember," she said softly, opening her blue eyes and looking at him--without shyness, as he noticed, but with a kind of wistful trust which appealed to all the tenderness of his nature. "Did I faint?" There was a slight emphasis on the last word. "You were unconscious for a time," said the Rector. "But I hope that you feel better now." She gave him a curious look--whether of shame or of reproach he could not tell--then buried her face in the pillows and began to cry quietly, with her fingers before her eyes. "My dear Miss Vane, can I not do anything for you? I will call the housekeeper," said the Rector, driven almost to desperation by the sight of her tears. It was always very painful to him to see a woman cry. "No, no!" she said, raising her head for a moment. "No--don't call any one, please; I shall be better directly. I know what was the matter now." She dried her eyes and tried to calm herself, while the Rector stood by the table in the middle of the room, nervously turning over books and pamphlets, and pretending not to see that she was crying still. "Mr. Evandale," she said at length, "I don't know how to thank you for being so kind. I must tell you----" "Don't tell me anything that is painful to you, Miss Vane." "It will not be painful to tell you after your great kindness to me. I--I am subject to these attacks. The doctors say that they do not exactly understand the case, but they think that I shall outgrow them in course of time. I have not had one for six months till to-night." She burst into tears again. "But, my dear child,"--he could not help saying it--the words slipped from his lips against his will--"there is nothing to be so troubled about; a little faintness now and then--many people suffer from it."