I begged her to take a seat and direct me. She was so weary that it was easy to persuade her. And thus I entered upon her service and became a nurse. She spoke never a word of that which had happened over stairs, but I thought I detected in her bearing a growing, if melancholy, tolerance, and perhaps some small faint trace of interest in myself. At any rate, she watched me at her work, and that was something benedictive to my mind. Silent was her mood, however, and silence suited her. It ever seemed a pity that speech should be allowed to mar the perfect calm of her reposeful countenance--until she spoke--when instantly one lost regret in wonder at the new and unexpected graces so called into existence. During the next few days the world dealt kindly with our household. Sir William's strength very gradually improved; Marion relaxed a little of her habitual sadness, and as for me, I had never been so happy in my life. I only left the house on one occasion, in order to convey my valuables from Bruton Street to the bank. After that was done, I felt minded never to quit Curzon Street again so long as our then manner of living might continue. I spent my time between the sick room and the pantry; relieving Marion of every trouble that I could, and waiting on her with the noiseless patience of a shadow. In this I was wise, without other intention than to please her. My silence began to appeal to her imagination even more than my ceaseless studied courtesies. And in this behalf I would remark my faith that no woman lives, howso preoccupied with grief or other interests, who can long remain impervious to persistently considerate devotion. I often caught her watching me with grave, inquiring eyes. On such occasions it was I, not she, who exhibited confusion. I could not act to her. Sometimes feeling her power I grew quite terrified. Did she study me? I wondered, and what was her opinion? I was soon to know. One evening Sir William dropped into a deep slumber far sooner than his wont. The room adjoining his I had converted from a dressing-chamber into a boudoir for Marion's convenience; and there she had become accustomed to retire, when circumstances permitted, to rest and dream perhaps, within his call. There it was I found her, replying to the summons of her bell. "You rang, madam?" I asked in a low voice. She was reclining in a lounge. She had discarded her nurse's costume for a wrapper, and she looked the better for it; more softly lovely and more human, too, I think. She pointed to a chair. "Will you not talk to me a while?" she asked. "I feel lonely to-night." I felt my face burn as I bowed and sat down--upon her bidding. I could hardly credit my good fortune, and I lacked breath to reply. "You have been very good to me," she murmured. "Why was it, Brown?" Still I could not reply. I dared not even look at her.