Later that evening as Dr. Heriot passed through the dusky courtyard, he found Mildred waiting in the porch. 'How late you are; I almost feared you were not coming to-night,' she said anxiously, in answer to his cheery 'good evening.' 'Am I to flatter myself that you were watching for me then?' he returned, veiling a little surprise under his usual light manner. 'How are all the tempers, Miss Lambert? I hope I am not required to call spirits blue and gray from the vasty deep, as I am not sure that I feel particularly sportive to-night.' 'I wanted to speak to you about Olive,' returned Mildred, quietly ignoring the banter. 'She does not seem well. The headache was fully accounted for yesterday, but I do not like the look of her to-night. I felt her pulse just now, and it was quick, weak, and irregular, and she was complaining of giddiness and a ringing in her ears.' 'I have noticed she has not looked right for some days, especially on St. Peter's day. Do you wish me to see her?' he continued, with a touch of professional gravity. 'I should be much obliged if you would,' she returned, gratefully; 'she is in my room at present, as Chriss's noise disturbs her. Your visit will put her out a little, as any questioning about her health seems to make her irritable.' 'She will not object to an old friend; anyhow, we must brave her displeasure. Will you lead the way, Miss Lambert?' They found Olive sitting huddled up in her old position, and looking wan and feverish. She shaded her eyes a little fretfully from the candle Mildred carried, and looked at Dr. Heriot rather strangely and with some displeasure. 'How do you feel to-night, Olive?' he asked kindly, possessing himself with some difficulty of the dry languid hand, and scrutinising with anxiety the sunken countenance before him. Two days of agitation and suppressed illness had quite altered the girl's appearance. 'I am well--at least, only tired--there is nothing the matter with me. Aunt Milly ought not to have troubled you,' still irritably. 'Aunt Milly knows trouble is sometimes a pleasure. You are not well, Olive, or you would not be so cross with your old friend.' She hesitated, put up her hand to her head, and looked ready to burst into tears. 'Come,' he continued, sitting down beside her, and speaking gently as though to a child, 'you are ill or unhappy--or both, and talking makes your head ache.' 'Yes,' she returned, mechanically, 'it is always aching now, but it is nothing.' 'Most people are not so stoical. You must not keep things so much to yourself, Olive. If you would own the truth I daresay you have felt languid and disinclined to move for several days?' 'I daresay. I cannot remember,' she faltered; but his keen, steady glance was compelling her to rouse herself. 'And you have not slept well, and your limbs ache as though you were tired and bruised, and your thoughts get a little confused and troublesome towards evening.'