"Tired, but not tired out, sir," said the old lady. "Poor child! she has something on her mind, too, which frets her." "Indeed!" said North. "Yes," continued Mrs Milt, in a whisper. "She keeps muttering about telling _him_ something--confessing, she calls it sometimes." "Some old trouble come up into her brain," said the doctor; and he sat down by the bedside, to gaze at Leo's flushed face as she lay there with her eyes half closed, apparently sleeping heavily now. "Not yet, not yet," sighed North, as he took the hot, dry hand in his, and a shiver ran through him as he thought of the old sexton's words, and wondered whether he would be able to save her--so young and beautiful--from so sad a fate. "Poor child!" he said, half aloud; and then he sat on, hour after hour, wondering whether it would be possible to do more; whether he had done everything that medical skill could devise; and finally, as he came to the conclusion that he had thoroughly done his duty by his patient, his heart sank, and he owned to himself that in some instances he and the rest of the disciples of the great profession were singularly impotent, and merely attendants on Nature's will. Salis came up from time to time, to enter the room softly, and mutely interrogate his friend, and then go sadly back to his study--where Mary sat with him--to give her such news as he had to bear, and join with her in watching and praying for the wilful sister they both so dearly loved. It was getting towards nine o'clock on the gloomy, stormy winter's night when, after softly replenishing the fire, as North was returning to his place by the bed, he heard a faint sigh, and bending down over his patient, he found that her eyes were wide open--not in a fixed, delirious stare, full of excitement, but calm and subdued, while a sweet smile passed into her expression as his face neared hers. "Is that dreadful old woman there?" she whispered. "No," he said, laying his hand upon her forehead. "I am alone." "Then I will speak," she said, in a low, passionate voice. "You have not known--you have not believed it possible--but tell me, I have been very ill?" "Yes," he said gently, "you have been ill; but don't talk--try and rest." "I have been very ill, and I may die, and then you would never know," she whispered quickly. "It is no time, then, for a foolish, girlish reserve. I may have been light and frivolous--coquettish too--but beneath it all I have loved you, and you alone. I do love you with all my heart." Two soft, white arms were thrown about Horace North's neck, to draw him closer to his patient's gently heaving breast. CHAPTER NINETEEN. WAS IT DELIRIUM? "Leo, my child, think what you are saying," cried North. "I do think. I have lain here and thought for hours. I am not ashamed to confess it. Why should I be?" She looked up at him inquiringly; while he for the moment felt giddy with emotion, but recovered himself directly.