So the days went past and there seemed to be little or no change in the Vicomte´s condition. But at length he recovered perfect consciousness and asked eagerly for Dorothy. It was indeed his first question after he recovered speech. Saunderson was in the room and seated by his patient´s side feeling his thin and languid pulse, when De Laprade suddenly looked at him with an eager and questioning gaze. The change was so sudden that the surgeon was startled. “I saw Dorothy--Miss Carew--but now,” said the Vicomte. “Where is she?” “She´ll no be long, my friend; just keep yourself cool and ye´ll see her the now. That´s a good laddie.” “I have little time to spare and I must see her before I die.” “Ye´ll no die this time. Ye´ll scratch grey hairs yet, if ye keep yersel´ blate and dinna fash without reason.” “You´re a good fellow,” said De Laprade, with a faint smile on his thin, wasted face, “I think I have seen you here in the room with me for months, but I will not trouble you much longer. Now bring Miss Carew here and complete your kindness.” “Ye must not excite yoursel´ in that fashion. Ye have been ower long in coming round, and we maun keep ye here when we hae you. Now drink this like a good laddie, and I’ll even fetch her mysel’.” He poured out a draught and held it to the Vicomte´s lips, who drank it obediently. Saunderson believed that the crisis had come and though he hoped that he was wrong for Dorothy´s sake, had come to the conclusion that this was the last feeble flicker of consciousness in his patient before the end. As he left the room De Laprade followed him with the same eager gaze. He found Dorothy in the corridor and told her what had happened. “And now,” he said, “ye´ll just keep him quiet and humour him like a baby. Let him gang his ain gait and say ‘Ay´ to all his clavers. I´d rather you were elsewhere, but he´ll no bide till he has seen you.” It was with a heavy heart that Dorothy entered the sick room. There was something in the surgeon´s manner that told her she must hope no longer; and as she saw De Laprade lying with the deathlike pallor on his wasted face and the eager famished look in his dark eyes she thought that he was dying. She went over noiselessly to the bed and sat down beside him, laying her hand on the coverlet. Neither of them spoke, and it was with an heroic effort that she restrained her tears. Then De Laprade took her hand in his and a look of contentment lighted up his dark face. She wondered to herself at the change that had taken place in so short a time. There was something almost boyish in the face that was turned toward her. “I am starting on a long journey, my cousin,” he said, “and I would see you before I go. You will not think unkindly of me when----” She could make no answer but only bent over his hand to hide the tears that were welling to her eyes, though she strove to repress them.