When I recover consciousness, I find myself in my own room, lying upon my bed. The blinds are all drawn down, to cause a soothing darkness. There is a general feel of dampness about my hair and forehead; somebody is bending anxiously over me. Raising my eyes in languid scrutiny, I discover it is my mother. "Is that you, mamma?" "Yes, my darling." "I did not know you were coming to-day. How is it you are here just now? and why am I lying on my bed?" I uplift myself upon my elbow, and peer at her curiously. Her eyelids are crimson; her voice is full of the thick and husky sound that comes of much weeping. "What has happened? Why am I here?" I repeat. "You were not well, dearest. A mere faint--nothing more: but we thought you would feel better if kept quiet quiet. I was driving over to see you to day, and very fortunately arrived just as I was wanted. Lie down again and try to sleep." "No, I cannot. What has vexed you mother? You have been crying." "Oh, no, darling," in trembling tones; "you only imagine it. Perhaps it is the uncertain light." "Nonsense," I insist angrily; "you know you have. I can see it in your eye, I can hear it in your voice. Why do you try to deceive me! Something has happened--I feel--it and you are keeping it from me. Let me think---" With a nervous gesture mother raises a cup from a table near, and puts it to my lips. "Drink this first, and think afterwards," she says; "it will do you good." "No, I shall think first. There is something weighing on my brain, and--on my heart. Why don't you help me to remember?" I put my hands to my head in deep perplexity. Slowly, slowly the truth comes back to me; slowly all the past horrible scene revives itself. "Ah!" I gasp, affrightedly. "I remember! I know it all now. I can see her again! She said--But," seizing mother's wrists fiercely, "It is not true, mother? Oh mother! say it is not true! Oh! mother! mother!" "Phyllis, my child--my lamb! what shall I say to comfort you?" "Deny it!" I cry, passionately flinging my arms around her waist, and throwing back my head that I may watch her face. Poor face! so filled with the bitterest of all griefs, the want of power to solace those we love. "Why do you cry? Why don't you say at once it was a lie? You are as bad as Marmaduke; _he_ stood there too, deaf as a stick or a stone to my entreaties. Oh, will no one help me? Oh, it is true then!--it is true!" I push her from me, and, burying my head on my arms rock myself to and fro, in a silent agony of despair. Not a sound breaks the stillness, but mother's low suppressed sobbing; it maddens me. "What are you crying for?" I ask, roughly, raising my tearless face; "my eyes are dry. It is my sorrow, not yours not any one's. What do _you_ mean by making moan?" She makes no answer, and my head drops once more upon my arms. I continue my ceaseless, miserable rocking. Again there is silence. A door bangs somewhere in the distance.