As this thought passed through his mind, and instantly became a resolve, Bram raised his head quickly, and was struck with something like horror to find that Claire was sitting up, resting her whole body on her arms, and staring at him with glittering eyes. As these met his own astonished look, she smiled at him with a strange sweetness which made him suddenly want to spring up and take her in his arms. Instead of that, he rose slowly, and advancing towards the sofa with a hesitating, creeping step, asked gently if she wanted anything. She shook her head, smiling still; and then she put out one hand to him. He took it; the skin was hot and dry. Her lips, he now perceived, looked dry and parched. “Bram,” she said in her old voice, bright and soft and clear, “I forget. What day is it we are to be married?” Bram stood beside her, holding her hand, such a terrible rush of mingled feelings thronging, surging into his heart that he was as incapable of speech as if he had been a dumb man. She looked at him with the same gentle smile, inquiringly. Presently, as he still kept silence, she said-- “It seems a strange thing to have forgotten. But was it Tuesday?” Bram nodded slowly, as if the head he bent had been weighted with lead. Then she drew her hand out of his with a contented sigh, and fell back on the couch. Again she closed her eyes, and again Bram, who was in a tumult of feelings he could not have described, of which the dominant was pain, cruel, inextinguishable pain, hoped that she was asleep. He sat down on a chair near her, and watched her face. It was perfectly calm, peaceful, and sweet for some minutes. Then a slight look of trouble came over it, and she opened her eyes again. “Bram,” she called out in a voice of alarm. Then perceiving him close to her, she drew a breath of relief, and stretched out her hand to him. “It’s so strange,” she went on, with glittering eyes. “Whenever I shut my eyes I have horrible dreams of papa, always papa! Where is he? Is he here? Is he safe?” Bram patted her hot, twitching hand reassuringly. “He is quite safe, I’ve no doubt,” he said. “He’s gone out, and he hasn’t come back yet.” Claire stared at him inquiringly, and frowned as if in perplexity. “But what has happened?” she asked. “Why does everything seem so strange? Your voice, and the ticking of the clock, and my own voice too--they sound quite different! And my head--oh, it aches so! Have I been ill? Where’s Joan?” She wandered on thus so quickly from one subject to another that Bram was saved the trouble of finding answers to any of her questions except the last. “Joan will be back in a little while,” said he. “She’s gone home to see to her children. But she won’t be long.” “Is she coming back to-night? Why is she coming back to-night?” “Well, to look after you.” “Then I have been ill?” “You’re not very well now,” said Bram gently. “Why not? Something has happened? Won’t you tell me what it is?”