"You are the rector," I wailed, "and you are angry with me. If Miss Drury would come, she would understand everything. Why don't you send for her? Why is she not here?" Even while I was pouring out these wild words, I felt the rector's hands upon my arm, and I was drawn gently indoors and nearer to the light. But somehow the kind hands seemed not to be strong enough to hold me, and the light melted into darkness. There came a sound in my ears like the roaring of many waters, and then I knew no more. Once or twice I was vaguely aware that one or two people were busy about me, and that I was in great pain of body and trouble of mind. But nothing was clear and plain. And once I dreamed a feverish dream of the house in the dreary London street where Ronald had lain sick unto death; and I thought that he was really dead, and that I was dying and going straight to him. How long these strange fancies lasted I do not know. It seemed to me that I was a long while in a land of phantoms, where the dead and the living drifted about together; and their words had no meaning, their forms no substance. But at last I awoke, and the waking was as bewildering as the dreams had been. [Illustration] CHAPTER XVII. AWAKING. OUT of the world of phantoms, I came one day into the familiar old work-a-day world again. It was a world of softly-tempered light and shade. I became, at first, vaguely conscious of two open windows half veiled by lace curtains, and on each broad window-sill there stood a quaint old red-and-blue vase, holding roses and myrtle. Above a high chimney-piece hung a faded piece of crewelwork, framed and glazed, and representing (as I discovered afterwards) the Walk to Emmaus, and below the picture was a formidable row of medicine-bottles, some of them nearly empty. I must, I suppose, have uttered some inarticulate words when I first saw these things around me. Anyhow, two persons, one on the right side of the bed and one on the left, rose quietly and bent over me. One of these two faces, framed in an old-fashioned cap, was rosy and wrinkled like an apple from a store-room. The other was young and comely, although the kind eyes looked upon me through a mist of tears, and the pleasant lips were trembling. It was Marian Bailey's face; but never before had I seen the calm Marian so deeply moved. "How did you come here, Marian?" was the first question I asked. I did not even know where "here" was. I could not tell how I came to be lying in this sunny old-world room, nor why all those bottles were ranged upon the mantelpiece. And yet I had an indistinct notion that Marian must have had some trouble in finding me. "Never mind now, dear," said my friend, soothingly. "You have been ill, and mustn't talk much. But you are going to get well soon, and be very happy."