"One moment," continued George, holding up his hands. "He was carried home insensible, and now lies between life and death. He is delirious and knows no one, but lies tossing to and fro on his bed, ever muttering your name, ever recalling scenes which have been passed in your company. When I saw him in this state, when I heard those groans, and recognised them as the utterances of the mental agony which he was suffering, I thought it my duty to come to you. Understand, I make no _ad misericordiam_ appeal. There is no question of my throwing myself on your feelings, and imploring you to have pity on this boy. I imagine that, even with all his passion for and devotion to you, he is far too proud for that, and would disclaim my act so soon as he knew of it. But, loving him as I do, I come to you and say, 'This is your work.' What steps you should take, if any, it is for you to determine. I say nothing, advise nothing, hint nothing, save this: if what you wrote in that letter to Paul was final and decisive, the result of due reflection, the conviction that you could not be happy with him, then stand by it and hold to it; for if you were to give way merely for compassion's sake, his state would be even worse than it is now. But if you spoke truth to me at the beginning of this interview, if your dismissal of Paul was, as you described it, a woman's whim, conceived without adequate reason, and carried out in mere wantonness, I say to you, that if this boy dies--and his state even now is most critical--his death will lie at your door." Daisy had been listening with bent head and averted eyes. All evidence of her having heard what George had said lay in a nervous fluttering motion of her hand, involuntary and beyond her control. When George ceased, she looked up, and said in a hard, dry voice: "What will you have me do?" "I told you at first that I would give you no advice, that I would make no suggestion as to the line of conduct you should pursue. That must be left entirely to the promptings of your heart, and--excuse me, Miss Stafford, I am sadly old-fashioned, and still believe in the existence of such things--your conscience." "Is he--is he so very ill?" asked Daisy in a trembling voice. "He is very dangerously ill," said George; "he could not be worse. But understand, I don't urge this to influence your decision, nor must you let it weigh with you. Your action in this matter must be the result of calm deliberation and self-examination. To act on an impulse which you will repent of when the excitement is over, is worse than to leave matters where they are." "He--he is delirious, you say?" asked Daisy; "he does not recognise anyone?"