“He is resting, dear,” she said, “so I shall leave him for a while. We must nurse him together, and we shall soon get him well.” Vane’s face flushed a little. “I will help you gladly,” she returned, and she spoke honestly. Her first thought, like her aunt’s, had been that this would bring Stuart and herself more together. She had another duty to perform, too. She must ingratiate herself with Sir Douglas Gerant, and try by every means in her power to wipe away the memory of her foolish mistake. Stuart slept for an hour or two, and dreamed of Margery, but when he awoke the pain in his arm was so great that even her sweet image was banished from his thoughts. His mother came in as night fell, but Stuart was too ill to broach the subject of his love. The blow on the head was more severe than he had imagined, and he grew feverish as the day declined. He heard the tower clock chime the night hours, and whenever he moved his head, his eyes rested on the figure of Sir Douglas reading by the window, and ready at any moment to tend him. And at the small cottage by the Weald another being sat and watched by a sickbed, watched with a heart that was growing sadder and sadder as the moments passed. Margery, still in the white cotton gown that she wore when she plighted her troth, knelt by Mary Morris’ couch, trying to alleviate the pain that was racking the poor, wasted frame. She was ignorant of her lover’s illness, and she thought of him only with a sense of peace and happiness. What a long, wonderful day it had been, she thought, as she sat beside the little window and watched the veil of night darken the sky--a day in which her girlhood was buried forever, a day in which the golden glory of all earthly happiness dawned for her! She turned from the window to watch the sick woman. The paroxysm of pain seemed past, and she was asleep. The house was quiet as a tomb. In another room the loving, faithful husband and companion was lost to trouble in slumber. Margery was alone; she moved softly to the window and drew back the curtains, and immediately the room was bathed in the silver radiance of the moon. She stood and gazed on at the dark-blue heavens, the glittering myriads of jeweled stars, the moonlit earth, till a cloud seemed to obscure her vision; and, when she gazed again, the stars were gone and a ruddy haze, pierced by the sun’s golden beams, illumined the sky. She rose softly, moved on tiptoe to the bed, then, with a sudden shudder, dropped on her knees beside it. While her eyes had been closed in sleep, while the dawn had spread its roseate veil over the night, a spirit had flown from earth--Mary Morris was dead! CHAPTER IX.