"I beg pardon for the noise," I said; "how are you?" "Thank you, a pain up here, Kate"; and she put her hand, so long giving support to her chin, upon the top of her head. "It isn't Kate"; and I came into full view. She looked up at me. "Why, you are--yes, I know--Miss Percival," she said. "I am." "Have you been here long?" "Only since yesterday." Why did she seem relieved at my reply? "Do they think me ill enough to have a stranger come to me?" "Almost as polite as the grum brother," I thought; but I said, "You mustn't let me be a stranger to you. I came,--I wasn't sent for." She made an effort to rise from her seat, but, unable, turned her eyes toward the windows. "What is it?" I asked. "I thought I'd like to know what the weather looks like." "Then let me lift the curtains"; and I drew aside the folds, but there was nothing to be seen. The moon was not yet up; and even had it been, there was slight chance for seeing it, as the sun had stayed behind clouds all the day. "Put them down, please; there's no light out there." "The doctor left some medicine for you; will you take it?" "No, I thank you. I hate medicines." "So do I." "Then pray tell me what you wish me to take it for." "You mistake; it was the doctor's order, not mine." "The very idea of asking that image of calm decision there to do anything!--but then I must, I am nurse"; so I ventured, "Had you not better go to bed?" "After a little. Would you bathe my head? this pain distresses me, and I don't want to dream, I'd rather stay awake." As I stood beside her, gently applying the cooling remedy, trying to stroke away the pain, she asked,-- "Did they tell you that my mother is dead?" "Yes." "She was my mother. Oh, why didn't I tell her? Why? why?" and great spasms of torturesome pain drew her beautiful face. I didn't tell you how beautiful she is. Well, it doesn't matter; you couldn't understand, if I should try. She turned suddenly, caught my dress in her hands, and asked,-- "Have you a mother, Miss Percival?" and before I could answer my sad "No," she said, "Forgive me. I forgot for one moment" My mother had been twenty years dead. What did she know about it? I, three years old when she died, but just remembered her. Katie came in, bringing "thoughts of me" condensed into aromatic draughts of coffee, which she put upon the hearth, "to keep warm," she said. I asked her to bring some "sweet" to mix the powder in. "I hate disguises," said Miss Axtell; "I'd rather have true bitters than cover them just a little with sugars. Give it me, if I must take it." "But you can't,--not _this_ powder." "A glass of water, Kate, please"; and she actually took the bitter dose of Dover in all its undisguised severity. "There! isn't that a thousand times better than covering it all up in a sweetness that one knows isn't true?" She looked a little as if expecting an answer. I would have preferred not saying my thought, and was waiting, when she asked,--