When Tom had travelled all night and driven five miles by the edge of a forest at the foot of a chain of hills, he found himself at the place the Lakemans had taken near Pitlochry. A lovely house, with a wood round it, and through it a view of a glen, and a stream that hurried white and frothing towards the distance. He asked how Miss Lakeman was in a whisper, half expecting to hear that she was dead. "Miss Lakeman hasn't been very well, sir," the servant answered, and showed him into a charming room where there was a divine view from the open windows. Near the farther window there was a breakfast-table laid daintily for two, with fresh fruit and late roses in a bowl. Lena was lying on a sofa beside it in a muslin gown, just as Mrs. Lakeman had told Dawson Farley she would be. Her face looked thin and pale, her eyes large and restless; she seemed weak and worried, but there was not a sign of dangerous illness about her. She tried to raise herself as he entered, but apparently was not able to do so. "Tom, dear," she said, "I have been waiting for you--I knew you would come." "Of course," he answered; "but what is the matter?" "I have been ill--very ill, but I'm better. I shall be well, now you have come." "I thought you were dying," he said, a little resentfully, thinking that he had been hurried away from Margaret for nothing. "I should have died if you hadn't come," she answered. "Sit down--there," and she signed to a chair close to the sofa. "Where's Mrs. Lakeman?" he asked, looking round uneasily. "She has one of her bad attacks of neuralgia. You are glad to come to us?" She turned up her great eyes almost imploringly at him. "Yes; but I don't understand." He looked out at the glen beneath the windows, and followed the course of the stream with his eyes. "That sort of telegram shouldn't be sent without a good deal of reason." "But I have been very ill, Tom, dear; and I have wanted you so." She held out her hands; he looked at her uneasily, but he did not take them. Somehow her manner was different from the one to which he was accustomed, and a misgiving, he did not know of what, rose in his heart. "I felt that no one else could make me well," she added, in a pathetic voice. "Good! We'll see what can be done. Now, are you going to give me some breakfast?" "It will be here directly. Tell me about naughty little Margaret. Is her lover with her?" "Why, of course not; I have just come away." He didn't like being called a lover. "She and I are engaged; I telegraphed yesterday--" "Oh, but it was only a little joke, Tom, dear; you wouldn't be so unkind to Mr. Garratt."