Wych Hazel went to her room so utterly spent, so completely prostrate, that even Phoebe could not talk during her ministrations; nor dared Mrs. Bywank find fault. _Why_ Miss Wych must needs tire herself to death, over nobody knows what, was a trial to the good housekeeper's patience as well as her curiosity; but for that night the only thing was to let her sleep. It was the only thing next day. The reaction, once fairly set in, was strong in proportion to the causes which had prepared for it and brought it about; and Wych Hazel lay in a motionless stupor of sleep, from which nothing could rouse her up. She would open her eyes perhaps, and answer a question, but anything more than that was plainly beyond her strength; and for three days and three nights she lay, as helpless as a little child. "Sleeping her life out," Phoebe said, and certainly frightening Mrs. Bywank half to death; but in reality passing safely out from under the mortal illness that had hung over her by a thread. And so, on the fourth morning after the day of events, Hazel did fairly wake up, and dress herself, and go down stairs; devoutly hoping that nobody _but_ Mr. Falkirk might come to breakfast, and extremely ready to dispense with him. Wrapping herself in the soft folds of a crimson morning dress, which at least would keep her in countenance; her face more delicate than pale; her step rather hesitating than slow; her thoughts in a maze of dreamland as misty and bright and shy as the morning sunbeams that went everywhere and just kept out of reach. What had happened _before_ these three days, that, Hazel knew well enough. But what had happened since that? Had Jeannie Deans been here, with her master?—and not finding the lady of the house on hand, had they then gone straight to Mr. Falkirk? And if so, what was his probable state of mind?—did _he_ know? or guess? And how many more times had her other guardian come to Chickaree? and what had he thought of the tidings about her?— and at what unexpected point of the day or the minute was she to meet him, on a sudden? Her step lingered on the last stair—went noiselessly along the hall; and then the next thing Mr. Falkirk knew, was a light hand on his shoulder and a soft 'Good-morning, sir.' 'My dear!' said Mr. Falkirk suddenly rising, 'I am very glad to see you.' And he took her hand, which was not common, and looked at her as if to convince himself that all was right. 'Are you, sir?' she said with a laugh. 'You are sure it is not a hallucination, Mr. Falkirk?' 'I am sure of nothing, Miss Hazel, except that I see you. At my time of life, confidence in any conclusions is somewhat shaken. What has been the matter with you?' 'I have been having my own way, sir,—which has agreed with me admirably,' returned Miss Hazel with an arch of her eyebrows. 'There is nothing like it, I find. Will you come to breakfast, Mr. Falkirk?'