Then there was dear little Mrs Tipper hurrying in with a concerned face to inquire what had happened, and recommending all sorts of remedies for my hand. Did I not think it better to send Becky into the village for Mr Stone the surgeon? Was I _quite_ sure it did not require being strapped up? Had I looked to see if there was anything in the wound? &c. But I had my hand well muffled up; and assured them, with more truth than they suspected, that it really was not a very serious cut. 'Only I think I will say good-night, and take off these wet things at once, if you will excuse my not coming down again,' I added, with a feverish longing to be alone. I had nevertheless to submit to mulled wine and a great deal of comforting and petting. And Lilian entreated to be allowed to remain with me during the night. 'Dear Mary, do let me stay; I feel sure that you are not so well as you think you are.' But I sent her off with a jest; and my first difficulty was overcome. Two hours later, when she had made sure that the others were at rest, Becky stole into my room. 'I will lie on the floor, and I won't speak a word; but don't send me away, please don't send me away,' she whispered. I was obliged to make the faithful girl share my bed, for I could not prevail upon her to leave me. Probably her presence was some little help to me in the way of preventing any indulgence of sentiment, had I been inclined to yield to it again. When morning came, cool and fresh and sunny after the storm, I was myself again; not my looks--the effects of the storm which had passed over _me_ were not to be so easily effaced--but I was nerved in spirit for what was to come. In the early morning--so early that Becky had barely time to slip away--came Lilian in her white wrapper; and then I noticed how fragile she had become. My darling, had I been even for a moment so unjust as to doubt you, I could have doubted you no longer! She was full of loving sympathy about my hand. 'Dear Mary, I could not sleep for thinking of you. Even now you do not look quite yourself.' 'Nevertheless, I am myself.' She nestled closer to me, looking anxiously and doubtfully up into my face. How thankful I should have been just at that moment if love were as blind as it is sometimes depicted as being! 'No; not quite your old self. Say--do say that you love me, Mary.' 'Is it necessary to say it, Lilian?' 'Yes;' feverishly. 'Then I love you, child.' 'And--and say that you believe my love for you is true--say it!' 'I _know_ that your love for me is true, my sister.'