The door closed on Mr. Bartley Bradstone and his protector, and the squire went upstairs again. As he approached the door, he could hear his darling’s voice talking wildly and incoherently, and the doctor met him with a grave face. “She is delirious,” he said, gravely. “Has Mr. Bradstone gone?” They entered the room. Olivia was lying in Bessie’s arms, her eyes open and staring, a torrent of words streaming from her feverish lips. “Bessie! Bessie! Save him! He is not guilty! My love commit--murder! Ha, ha!” and her wild laughter rang through the room. “He’s so good and gentle! They are mad, mad, mad! Take me to him, father! Take me to him! It is my place! I tell you that if all the world pronounced him guilty, I would love--love--love him! He is innocent! Father, don’t let him take me away! No! Let me stay! Hide me from him! I hate him! I hate him!” “What does it mean?” moaned the squire, piteously. “It means just nothing,” replied the doctor, who had watched beside many a delirious patient, and was as discreet and silent as the grave. “Pay no attention. Who’s that?” It was Aunt Amelia’s voice at the door, begging to be admitted. “Miss Amelia can do no good. Keep her away, please,” he said, quietly; and the squire persuaded her, weeping bitterly--for Aunt Amelia’s heart was sound, though her head was flighty--to go back to her own room. All through the night--and how long it seemed!--the three watched beside the fever-stricken girl, listening to her delirious cries; but toward morning they grew less wild, and as the dawn broke they ceased altogether and she lapsed into a deep sleep. The doctor’s grave face cleared. “Thank God!” he said, with a long breath of relief. “Go and lie down, squire; the worst has passed. We shall only have to fight against the weakness and exhaustion now. But mind,” he added, as he gently forced the squire out of the room, “keep Mr. Bradstone out of the way, and don’t mention his name before her. There must be no excitement.” The squire asked if he should send to Wainford for a skilled nurse; but the doctor shook his head. “No,” he said, decisively. “You could not get a better than this girl Bessie, and--nurses talk,” he added, under his breath. The morning came and the long day passed. The hushed household moved about on tiptoe and spoke in whispers. Almost every hour, as he had promised, the squire sent word to Bartley Bradstone; Olivia was lying in the sleep of unconsciousness. About six o’clock in the evening Bartley Bradstone entered the library, where the squire sat, his head resting in his hands. “I--I couldn’t stop away any longer,” he said, sinking into a chair. “How is she now?” “Just the same,” replied the squire, looking at his white face, pityingly. “She lies now like one dead, indeed----” Bartley Bradstone groaned and wiped his forehead. “I’ve spent a wretched night,” he said; “wretched. I suppose you’ve heard the news?” he asked, suddenly. The squire shook his head.