INA KLOSKING recovered her senses that evening, and asked Miss Gale where she was. Miss Gale told her she was in the house of a friend. “What friend?” “That,” said Miss Gale, “I will tell you by-and-by. You are in good hands, and I am your physician.” “I have heard your voice before,” said Ina, “but I know not where; and it is so dark! Why is it so dark?” “Because too much light is not good for you. You have met with an accident.” “What accident, madam?” “You fell and hurt your poor forehead. See, I have bandaged it, and now you must let me wet the bandage--to keep your brow cool.” “Thank you, madam,” said Ina, in her own sweet but queenly way. “You are very good to me. I wish I could see your face more clearly. I know your voice.” Then, after a silence, during which Miss Gale eyed her with anxiety, she said, like one groping her way to the truth, “I--fell--and--hurt--my forehead?--_Ah!”_ Then it was she uttered the cry that made Vizard quake at the door, and shook for a moment even Rhoda's nerves, though, as a rule, they were iron in a situation of this kind. It had all come back to Ina Klosking. After that piteous cry she never said a word. She did nothing but think, and put her hand to her head. And soon after midnight she began to talk incoherently. The physician could only proceed by physical means. She attacked the coming fever at once, with the remedies of the day, and also with an infusion of monk's-hood. That poison, promptly administered, did not deceive her. She obtained a slight perspiration, which was so much gained in the battle. In the morning she got the patient shifted into another bed, and she slept a little after that. But soon she was awake, restless, and raving: still her character pervaded her delirium. No violence. Nothing any sore injured woman need be ashamed to have said: only it was all disconnected. One moment she was speaking to the leader of the orchestra, at another to Mr. Ashmead, at another, with divine tenderness, to her still faithful Severne. And though not hurried, as usual in these cases, it was almost incessant and pitiable to hear, each observation was so wise and good; yet, all being disconnected, the hearer could not but feel that a noble mind lay before him, overthrown and broken into fragments like some Attic column. In the middle of this the handle was softly turned, and Zoe Vizard came in, pale and somber. Long before this she had said to Fanny several times, “I ought to go and see her;” and Fanny had said, “Of course you ought.” So now she came. She folded her arms and stood at the foot of the bed, and looked at her unhappy rival, unhappy as possible herself. What contrary feelings fought in that young breast! Pity and hatred. She must hate the rival who had come between her and him she loved; she must pity the woman who lay there, pale, wounded, and little likely to recover.