But that evening the insidious disease from which the girl was suffering withdrew the treacherous semblance of health it had lent to her burning cheeks, and it was obvious that she had grown rapidly worse. They all saw it, and would not confess it to each other. They only noticed that Mrs. Anerley did not stir now from Dove’s bedside. Mr. Anerley spent nearly the whole of that night in walking up and down his own room—from time to time stealthily receiving messages, for they would not admit to Dove that they felt much anxiety about her. The man seemed to have grown greyer; or perhaps it was the utter wretchedness of his face that made him look so old and careworn. Will sate in an easy-chair, gloomily staring into the fire. The appointment he had so eagerly sought and so joyfully gained, fancying it was to bring them all back again into pleasant circumstances, was only a bitter mockery now. He could not bear to think of it. He could bear to think of nothing when this terrible issue was at stake in the next room. In the morning, when the first grey light was sufficiently clear to show Dove’s face to the nurse and Mrs. Anerley, the latter looked at the girl for a long time. "Why do you look at me so, mamma?" she asked. She could not answer. She went into the next room, and crying, "Oh, Hubert, Hubert, go and look at my Dove’s face!" burst into tears on her husband’s bosom. And yet there was nothing remarkable about the girl’s face—except, perhaps, to one who had watched it critically all the night through, and was alarmed by the transition from the ruddy lamplight to the grey and haggard tone of the morning. The doctor came, and went away again, saying nothing. Towards the forenoon, Dove said to Will— "I want to hear ’The Coulin’——" "Not ’The Coulin,’ Dove," he pleaded. "When Miss Brunel comes, perhaps she will play it. The music is simple. Put it on the piano—and—and send for her." He himself went for her—out into the bright light of that fresh spring morning. Annie Brunel, when he found her, was in her poor lodgings, dressed in the simple black dress in which he had last seen her. "I was going up to see Dove," she said, "when I heard she had sent for me. But—is there anything the matter?" "Dove is ill," he said, abruptly. "I—I cannot tell you. But she wants you to come and—play a piece of music for her." Neither of them spoke a word all the way to the house. When Annie Brunel, pale and calm and beautiful, went to the girl, and took up her white hand, and kissed her, there was a pleased smile on Dove’s face. "Why didn’t they tell me you were ill?" she said. "I should have been here before." "I know that," said Dove, in a whisper, "for—for you have always been kind to me. You have come in time—but I am too weak to tell you—ask Will—the betrothal——" The brief explanation was speedily given; and then Dove said— "I am very tired. Will you go into the next room, and play me ’The Coulin;’ and when you come back——?"