I felt the sickness coming over me again, and I suppose went to the window for air, for I was found senseless on the floor under the open casement, by Mrs. Judith, who, in her kindness, had come up before going to bed to see how I was. She called Mary and got me to bed, and for three or four days I was in considerable danger, it seems, but my good constitution and Mrs. Judith's nursing brought me through. I had no surgeon, for the nearest, who lives at Biddeford, had been called away. I was not sorry, for I did as well without him, and perhaps better. I have been sitting up now for a week, and to-day ventured out of my room into the long gallery, greatly to the delight of Lady Betty, who thinks I must be almost well. The dear child was as good as possible all the time I was at the worst, so Mary tells me, even stifling her sobs when she was told that she would make herself sick, and that would grieve Mistress Merton. Since I have been getting better, Mary has brought her in to see me every day, and she has spent hours, sitting in her chair, or lying on the bed beside me. At first I had hard work to persuade her to go out of doors without me, but at last she let old John carry her down, and Mary go with her. She brings me great nosegays of flowers every day, as well as long stories about the squirrels and the young birds, for now, as ever, she prefers the wood to the garden. Every one has been very kind to me since I was sick. Only I fancied Lady Jemima (who has been at home more than a week,) treated me rather coldly. She brought me letters from aunt and Felicia, the latter sweet as honey—rather too sweet, in fact. Felicia is not apt to be so loving, unless she meditates a bite, or a scratch at the least. Mr. Corbet has not yet returned, but his mother, who has been once to see me, tells me that she expects him in a few days. Oh, how I have longed and pined for home, and mother, since I have been sick! All the home-sickness I have felt before was as nothing to it. But I hope to get the better of this weakness when I am able to take up my work once more. _July 1._ As I was sitting in the gallery this morning, who should come in but Mr. Penrose, whom I had not seen before since that unlucky day in the chapel. He looked pale and wretched enough, and I felt sorry for him. "I am glad to see you up once more," said he, with something of a tremor in his voice. "I little thought what would be the end, when I called you into the chapel. If you had died—" "You would doubtless have been much afflicted," said I, as he paused. "That would have been only natural, but even then, Mr. Penrose, you would have had no cause of self-reproach. Nobody would have been to blame—not even myself!" "I would never have entered the desk again!" said he. "I would have sought some solitude—there are no convents now to retire to—and have given my life to fasting and penance forever after."