Through that night I had but little repose, as may be imagined. The long hours I spent in trying to read or otherwise occupy myself, but such was the intensity of my anxiety that times without number I went and peeped in at the half-open door of my bedroom, wherein lay my beloved, motionless, still as one dead. A whole week went by. Two or three times daily the doctor called, but by his orders I was not allowed in the room, and it was not until nearly a fortnight had gone by that I entered and stood by her bedside. Even then I was forbidden to mention the circumstances of that night when such a desperate attempt had been made upon her life. Therefore I stood by her with words of love only upon my lips. Ours was a joyful meeting. For days my love had hovered between life and death. The doctor had gone into that room and come out again grave and silent several times each day, until at last he had told me that she had taken a turn for the better, and would recover. The delirium had left her, and she had recovered consciousness. Then there came to me a boundless joy when at last I was told that I might again see her. Not until ten more long and anxious days had passed was I allowed to speak to her regarding the mystery which was driving me to desperation, and then one afternoon, as the sunset, yellow as it always is in London, struggled into the room, I found myself alone with her. She was sitting up in my armchair, enveloped in a pretty blue dressing-gown which the nurse had bought for her, and her hair tied coquettishly with a blue ribbon. She could not rise, but as I entered her bright eyes sparkled with sudden unbounded delight, and speechless in emotion she beckoned me forward to a seat beside her. "And you are much better, dearest?" I asked, when we had exchanged kisses full of a profound and passionate love. "Yes," she answered, in a voice which showed how weak she still was. "The doctor says I shall get on quite well now. In a week or so I hope to be about again. Do they know of my illness at the shop?" "Don't trouble about the shop, darling," I answered. "You will never go back there again, to slave and wear out your life. Remain here content, and when you are well enough you can go down to Stamford and stay there in the country air until we can marry." "Then you still love me, Clifton?" she faltered. "Love you!" I cried. "Of course I do, dearest. What causes you to doubt me?" She hesitated. Her eyes met mine, and I saw they were wavering. "Because--because I am unworthy," she faltered. "Why unworthy?" I asked, quickly. "I have deceived you," she replied. "You are so good to me, Clifton, yet I have concealed from you the truth." "The truth of what?" "Of the strange events which have led up to this desperate attempt to take my life." "But who attacked you?" I demanded. "Tell me, and assuredly he shall not escape punishment." She paused. Her eyes met mine firmly.