She drew back the curtain on the string, and Monjoy placed Ellah in the niche, bidding Eastwood watch. “I’ll come upstairs with you, Cicely,” he said, and she led the way to Sally’s chamber. “How is she?” he asked, bending over the deeply sleeping woman. “Very low.” “Has she known anything?” “She hasn’t stirred more than you see her now since morning; she’s to be kept so. What’s wrong with Eastwood?--No, no, don’t tell me any more o’ that business. I want no word o’ that ----” She added the last words hastily, and her hands made a movement as if to hold some physical thing away from her. “I’ll take him away if it’s too much for you; but there’s nothing to fear from him now,” Monjoy murmured, not looking at her; “and--Cicely--for the other business, I’ve something you must--must--hear----” “No, no!” she muttered, repeating her gesture and catching at her upper lip with her teeth. “I can’t--I can’t--oh, it’s cruel to force it on me now! Haven’t I care enough?” Her breathing was interrupted, her mouth drawn, and her bosom heaved. “Over much, lass; but you must hear me----” Then, seeming still to struggle and to hold something away from her, she began to talk low and rapidly. “Leave me quiet, to see it through. To-morrow--to-night, for all I know--the blinds may ha’ to be drawn and the seeming-glasses covered--you men know nothing o’ this--this is our part--the waiting--always waiting--. Yonder’s one who’s waited, and look at her!” “Oh, hush, hush, Cicely!” But she continued more quickly.