"You are safe with us, my dear young lady. You must take this glass of reviving mixture, made from a receipt of my mother's." And Caroline Herschel held the glass to Griselda's lips. "How did I get here?" "My brother Alexander brought you; but do not ask further questions, but lie still." The draught seemed to restore poor Griselda to consciousness, and with consciousness the memory of what had happened came back. "Oh!" she said; "did--did he die? I saw him fall. Yes; I remember now. For pity's sake, answer me!" It was well for Griselda that she was in the hands of a person at once so sincere and so really kind-hearted. While many well-meaning people would have fenced the question, and put it off, she answered quietly: "Mr. Leslie Travers is very dangerously hurt. He is lying in his mother's house hard by; and all that care and tenderness can do will be done." "Can I go to him?" Griselda said piteously. "No; not yet--not yet. You are exhausted with all you have gone through. Your duty is to lie quiet." Duty was ever first with Caroline Herschel herself, and she thought it should be first with others also. Griselda struggled to her feet; but a deadly faintness overcame her, and she sank back again, crying: "His life for me--for me! Oh! I am not worthy----" and then she burst into hysterical weeping. "My dear Miss Mainwaring," her friend said, "the doctors say that Mr. Travers's only chance of life is to be kept quiet. If the wound bleeds again, he must die. If he is kept motionless and calm, he may live. Do you understand?" "Yes," Griselda said; "it is always waiting with me. Look! that is my mother's wedding-ring! There is a posy inside--'Patience and Hope.' But I can only have patience; I dare not hope. Did you know that my father was the actor who died in Crown Alley?--that Norah, the beggar-child at your door in Rivers Street, is--is my sister?" "No; I did not know it. But why should you be distressed?" "Because I know it has been the root of all this trouble. I know it is so! That bad man's evil eye was on us in the church that day--that bright, beautiful day--when was it?" Caroline Herschel thought she was wandering, and stroked her head, and said gently: "I will draw down the blind, and you must try to sleep." "Hark to the bells!" Griselda said. "They sound like joy-bells--joy-bells. They ought to be funeral bells." "It is Sunday afternoon! They ring for service in the churches." Then Griselda turned her head away, saying: "Sunday! What a Sunday this has been! Sunday--Sabbath, Graves calls it--a day of rest--rather, a day of strife, and sin, and sorrow." Yes; it had been a Sunday never to be forgotten by those who were concerned in that day's work. Long before the evening shadows fell over the city, the story of Sir Maxwell Danby's duel with Leslie Travers was circulating in the various coteries of Bath society. The gay world expressed pity and surprise.