"You may all go in, for what I care," says he, and, pushing by me, walked down the hall to his own bedroom. I looked after him as he went, and to my surprise I saw that he walked as straight as a sober man. I found my mistress lying very weak and still, but she forced a smile when she saw me, and signed to me to pour out some drops for her. After that she lay without speaking, her breath coming quick, and her eyes closed. Suddenly she groped out with her hand, and "_Emma_," says she, faintly. "It's Hartley, madam," I said. "Do you want anything?" She opened her eyes wide and gave me a startled look. "I was dreaming," she said. "You may go, now, Hartley, and thank you kindly. I'm quite well again, you see." And she turned her face away from me. III THERE was no more sleep for me that night, and I was thankful when daylight came. Soon afterward, Agnes called me to Mrs. Brympton. I was afraid she was ill again, for she seldom sent for me before nine, but I found her sitting up in bed, pale and drawn-looking, but quite herself. "Hartley," says she quickly, "will you put on your things at once and go down to the village for me? I want this prescription made up--" here she hesitated a minute and blushed--"and I should like you to be back again before Mr. Brympton is up." "Certainly, madam," I said. "And--stay a moment--" she called me back as if an idea had just struck her--"while you're waiting for the mixture, you'll have time to go on to Mr. Ranford's with this note." It was a two-mile walk to the village, and on my way I had time to turn things over in my mind. It struck me as peculiar that my mistress should wish the prescription made up without Mr. Brympton's knowledge; and, putting this together with the scene of the night before, and with much else that I had noticed and suspected, I began to wonder if the poor lady was weary of her life, and had come to the mad resolve of ending it. The idea took such hold on me that I reached the village on a run, and dropped breathless into a chair before the chemist's counter. The good man, who was just taking down his shutters, stared at me so hard that it brought me to myself. "Mr. Limmel," I says, trying to speak indifferent, "will you run your eye over this, and tell me if it's quite right?" He put on his spectacles and studied the prescription. "Why, it's one of Dr. Walton's," says he. "What should be wrong with it?" "Well--is it dangerous to take?" "Dangerous--how do you mean?" I could have shaken the man for his stupidity. "I mean--if a person was to take too much of it--by mistake of course--" says I, my heart in my throat. "Lord bless you, no. It's only lime-water. You might feed it to a baby by the bottleful."