Emma Levinger and her father also haunted the inn, and it was during those dark days that the state of the former’s affections became clear both to herself and to every one about her. Before this she had never confessed even to her own heart that she was attached to Henry Graves; but now, in the agony of her suspense, this love of hers arose in strength, and she knew that, whether he stayed or was called away, it must always be the nearest and most constant companion of her life. Why she loved him Emma could not tell, nor even when she began to do so; and indeed these things are difficult to define. But the fact remained, hard, palpable, staring: a fact which she had no longer any care to conceal or ignore, seeing that the conditions of the case caused her to set aside those considerations of womanly reserve that doubtless would otherwise have induced her to veil the secret of her heart for ever, or until circumstances gave opportunity for its legitimate expression. At length on a certain afternoon there came a crisis to which there was but one probable issue. The doctors and nurses were in Henry’s room doing their best to ward off the fate that seemed to be approaching, whilst Lady Graves, Mr. Levinger, Ellen and Emma sat in the parlour awaiting tidings, and striving to hope against hope. An hour passed, and Emma could bear the uncertainty no longer. Slipping out unobserved, she stole towards the sick room and listened at a little distance from it. Within she could hear the voice of a man raving in delirium, and the cautious tread of those who tended him. Presently the door opened and Joan appeared, walking towards her with ashen face and shaking limbs. “How is he?” asked Emma in an intense whisper, catching at her dress as she passed. Joan looked at her and shook her head: speak she could not. Emma watched her go with vacant eyes, and a jealousy smote her, which made itself felt even through the pain that tore her heart in two. Why should this woman be free to come and go about the bedside of the man who was everything to her—to hold his dying hand and to lift his dying head—while she was shut outside his door? Emma wondered bitterly. Surely that should be her place, not the village girl’s who had been the cause of all this sorrow. Then she turned, and, creeping back to the parlour, she flung herself into a chair and covered her face with her hands. “Have you heard anything?” asked Lady Graves. Emma made no reply but her despair broke from her in a low moaning that was very sad to hear. “Do not grieve so, dear,” said Ellen kindly. “Let me grieve,” she answered, lifting her white face; “let me grieve now and always. I know that Faith should give me comfort, but it fails me. I have a right to grieve,” she went on passionately, “for I love him. I do not care who knows it now: though I am nothing to him, I love him, and if he dies it will break my heart.”