But in spite of all this care, the fever and the delirium grew worse. The events of her Dalton life rose before her to the exclusion of all other memories, and filled all her thoughts. In her fancies she again lived that life of mingled anxiety and fear, and chafed and raged and trembled by turns at the restraint which she felt around her. Then she tried to escape, but escape was impossible. Then she seemed to speak with some one who promised deliverance. Eagerly and earnestly she implored this one to assist her, and mentioned plans of escape. Most of all, however, her thoughts turned to that scene in the Dalton vaults. The dead seemed all around. Amidst the darkness she saw the ghost of her ancestors. They frowned menacingly upon her, as on one who was bringing dishonor upon a noble name. They pointed at her scornfully with their wan fingers. Deep moans showed the horror of her soul, but amidst these moans she protested that she was innocent. Then her flight from the Hall came up before her. She seemed to be wandering through woods and thickets and swamps, over rocks and fallen trees. “Shall I never get out?” she murmured. “Shall I never get to the wall? I shall perish in this forest. I am sinking in this mire.” Then she saw some enemy. “It is he!” she murmured, in low thrilling tones. “He is coming! I will never go back--no, never! I will die first! I have my dagger--I will kill him! He shall never take me there--never, never, never! I will kill him--I will kill him!” After which came a low groan, followed by a long silence. So she went on in her agony, but her delirious words carried no connected meaning to her attendants. They could only look at one another inquiringly, and shake their heads. “She has been unhappy in her married life, poor dear,” said the landlady once, with a sigh; and this seemed to be the general impression, and the only one which they gathered from her words. Thus a fortnight passed away. At length the lowest stage of the disease was reached. It was the turning-point, and beyond that lay either death or recovery. All night long the landlady watched beside the bed of the poor sufferer, who now lay in a deep sleep, scarce breathing, while the doctor, who came in at midnight, remained till morning. Morning came at length, and Edith awaked. The delirium had passed. She looked around inquiringly, but could recall nothing. “Auntie dear,” she said, feebly, “where are you?” “There isn't no auntie, dear,” said the landlady, gently. “You are at Dalton Inn But don't speak, dearie--you are too weak.” “Dalton Inn,” repeated Edith, in a faint voice. She looked puzzled, for she was as yet too confused to remember. Gradually however, memory awaked, and though the recollection of her illness was a blank, yet the awful life that she had lived, and her flight from that life, with all its accompaniments, came gradually back. She looked at the landlady with a face of agony. “Promise,” said she, faintly.