“You can go, orderly,” said the physician, who was close to Marion. “I think this nurse can quiet the girl, and I don’t wish to resort to force if it can be avoided.” Marion thanked him with a smile, and the orderly backed away with a grin of delight. It was not always pleasant to be taken for a crazy woman’s husband. “Sallie! Sallie! Don’t you know me?” asked Marion, softly, as she walked up slowly and stood beside the table. The maniac did not notice her until the orderly had disappeared, then with a sigh of relief she dropped the sharp weapons that she had been clutching. “He’ll never strike me again now, Marion,” she cried, shrilly, “I’ve done jest as yer said. I’ve defied him at last, an’ now I’m goin’ ter run away an’ go tew the city.” CHAPTER XIV. MARION’S FIRST PROPOSAL. It was several days before Sallie recovered her senses, but she had not been transferred, much to Marion’s satisfaction. With the last disappearing trace of fever her reason was slowly restored, and her delight was unbounded when she found herself with Marion. “I’ll never go back,” she said over and over. “I’ll learn tew do nursing and stay right here, Marion. Do beg them tew let me stay! I know I can be useful.” But Sallie was destined to go back to Silas, although not exactly in the manner she had imagined. A letter from Deacon Marlowe informed Marion of Silas Johnson’s death. He had been killed by a fall on the ice in his own meadow. Neither Marion nor Sallie said much about the news, but they were both too frank and honest to express any sham sorrow. Marion’s first leave of absence was to put Sallie on the train and send her back to Hickorytown, a weak, wasted woman. Before they started down to the boat Miss Williams came out in the corridor and handed something to Marion. It was a small, flat package done up in brown paper. “I found them pinned to poor Kittie’s one frock,” she said, sadly, “and as the child had no friends and the baby is dead, I thought perhaps you would like to have them.” Marion took the parcel with a curious feeling of horror. It seemed a dreadful way to become possessor of Reginald Brookes’ picture. “I’ll keep them,” she said, slowly, “for I did love the girl, and perhaps I may be able to learn something about her some day.” On her way to the little flat Marion mailed a note to Reginald Brookes, for she had decided at last that she must settle the matter of the picture. He had called at the hospital twice, but she had been too busy to see him. Thanks to her work, the excuse was genuine in both instances. “Oh, Marion! I’m so glad!” cried Dollie as she admitted her. “That dear old ‘baldy’ of mine has given me a day’s vacation. If he hadn’t I would have missed you, and that would have been awful.” Miss Allyn came in and hugged Marion enthusiastically, and in a very short time they were all seated at a cozy dinner.