It was a warm morning in early August when Magdalen came fully to herself and looked around her with a feeling of wonder and uncertainty as to where she was and what had happened to her. The last thing she could remember distinctly was of being cold and chilly, and that the night wind blew upon her as she groped her way back to her room. Now the doors and windows were opened, and the warm summer rain was falling on the lawn outside and sifting down among the green leaves of the honeysuckle which was trained across the window. There were flowers in her room,—summer flowers,—such as grew in the garden beds, and it must be that it was summer now, and many weeks had passed since that dreadful night whose incidents she finally recalled, knowing at last what had happened in part. _She_ had found the will, and Mrs. Walter Scott had carried it to Roger, who was not as angry as she had feared he might be. Nay, he was not angry at all, and his manner towards her when she went to him in the library had belied what Frank had said, and her cheeks flushed and her pulse throbbed with delight as she felt again the kisses Roger had rained upon her lips and forehead and hair, and heard his voice calling her—“Magda, my darling, my darling.” He had done all this on that night which must have been so long ago, and that meant _love_, and Frank was mistaken or wished to deceive her, and she should tell him so and free herself wholly from him and then wait for Roger to follow up his words and acts, as he was bound in honor to do. Of all this Magdalen thought, and then she wondered what had been done about the will, and if Roger would really go away from Millbank; and if so, would he take her with him or leave her for awhile and come for her again. That he _had_ gone she never for a moment suspected. She had been delirious, she knew, but not so much so that some subtle influence would not have told her when Roger came to say good-by. He was there still. He had arranged those beautiful bouquets which looked so fresh and bright, and had set those violets just where she could see them. He had remembered all her tastes, and would come soon to see her and be so glad when he found how much better she was. At last there was a step in the hall; somebody was coming, but it was not Roger, nor Frank, nor yet Celine. _She_ had finally been sent away, though she had stood her ground bravely for a time in spite of Mrs. Walter Scott’s lofty ways and cool hints that Miss Lennox would do quite as well with a stranger, inasmuch as she did not know one person from another. She called her _Miss Lennox_ now altogether. _Magdalen_ would have been too familiar and savored too much of relationship, real or prospective, and this the lady was determined to prevent. But she said nothing as yet. The time for talking had not come, and might never come if Magdalen only had sense enough to answer Frank in the negative. He was still anxious, still waiting for that