At first she listened to the sick girl’s ravings, hoping she might learn something of the past, but as no names or places entered into the confused words she lost interest. Nevertheless, the words sank into her subconsciousness and made an impression. The fevered brain was groping back past the St. Michael days, groping in strange, distant places, but never finding anything definite. There seemed to be long, tiresome journeys, there were pathetic appeals to stop and rest. More than once the hoarse, weak voice cried: "They’ll believe me if I tell. I saw how it was. Let me tell, they’ll believe me." But when Jo questioned as to this the burning eyes only stared and the lips closed. At other times the girl grew strangely still and her face softened. "The white high-top is all pink," she once whispered looking toward the north window against which the sheet of icy rain was dashing; "it is morning!" Jo grew superstitious; she felt haunted and afraid for the first time in her life and finally she decided to call in Marcel Longville and let her share the secret vigil. The night of the day she decided upon this, something remarkable happened. Toward evening the rain ceased and the wind took to sobbing remorsefully in long, wearied gasps. The girl in the north chamber lay resting with lowered temperature and steadier pulse. "The crisis is past," murmured Jo, and when all was made comfortable, she went to the living room, put her feet in the oven, and looked at her weary, haggard face in the glass. The reflection did not move her, she was too utterly worn out, but she did think of the morrow and the coming of Marcel. "Now that there is no need," she muttered, "I must have someone. I’m all but done for. I cannot think straight, and there has got to be some straight thinking from now on." She was still looking at her plain face in the glass when she heard the clock in the kitchen strike ten and heard the even breathing of the girl in her north chamber. She was still looking in the glass, still hearing—what? Why, footsteps coming up the little white-shell path! Familiar steps they were, but coming from, oh! such a distance, and out of the many years! They caused no surprise nor alarm, however, and Jo smiled. She saw, quite distinctly, the face in the glass smiling, and now it was no longer old and haggard, and it seemed right that those steps should be near. Jo’s smile broadened. The steps came close; they were at the door. There was a quick, sharp knock as if the comer were hurrying gladly. Mam’selle sprang up and—found herself standing in the middle of the room, the fire all but burned out, the lamp sputtering! "I’ve been dreaming!" murmured Jo, pushing her hair back from her face. "Nick!"