Cicely's state was alarming. A violent attack of brain-fever had been followed by the present condition of comparative quiet; she recognized no one; much of the time she sang to herself gayly. The doctor feared that the paroxysms would return. They had been terrible to witness; Paul had held her, and he had exerted all the force of his strong arms to keep her from injuring herself, her fragile little form had thrown itself about so wildly, like a bird beating its life out against the bars of its cage. No one in this desolate cottage had time to think of the accumulation of troubles that had come upon them: the silence, broken only by Cicely's strange singing, the grief of Paul for his brother, the dumb despair of the old man, the absence of little Jack, the near presence of Death. But of the four faces, that of Eve expressed the deepest hopelessness. She stayed constantly in the room where Cicely was, but she did nothing; from the first she had not offered to help in any way, and the doctor, seeing that she was to be of no use, had sent a nurse. On the fourth day, Paul said: "You must have some sleep, Eve. Go to your room; I will have you called if she grows worse." "No; I must stay here." "Why? There is nothing for you to do." "You mean that I do nothing. I know it; but I must stay." On the seventh evening he spoke again; Cicely's quiet state had now lasted twenty-four hours. "Lying on a lounge is no good, Eve; to-night you must go to bed. Otherwise we shall have you breaking down too." "Do I look as though I should break down?" They had happened to meet in the hall outside of Cicely's door; the sunset light, coming through a small window, flooded the place with gold. "If you put it in that way, I must say you do not." "I knew it. I am very strong." "You speak as though you regretted it." "I do regret it." She put out her hand to open the door.--"Don't think that I am trying to be sensational," she pleaded. "All I think is that you are an obstinate girl; and one very much in need of rest, too." Her eyes filled, he had spoken as one speaks to a tired child; but she turned her head so that he should not see her face, and left him, entering Cicely's room, and closing the door behind her; her manner and the movement, as he saw them, were distinctly repellent. Cicely did not notice her entrance; the nurse, who had some knitting in her hand in order not to appear too watchful, but who in reality saw the rise and fall of her patient's every breath, was near. Eve went to the place where she often sat--a chair partially screened by the projection of a large wardrobe; she could see only a towel-stand opposite, and the ingrain carpet, in ugly octagons of red and green, at her feet. The silence was profound. "I am a murderer, it is a murderer who is sitting here. If people only knew! But it is enough for _me_ to know.