"She seems calmer," he whispered. "She was awake and talking a little while ago." "What--lucidly--sensibly?" In spite of himself North could not help a start as he turned and met his friend's eye, while his words were slow and constrained as he said, in a hesitating manner: "Yes; I think so. But she is very weak." And the mental question insisted upon being heard--Was she speaking sensibly, and as one in the full possession of her senses? "North, old fellow, this is great news," cried the curate. "Heaven be thanked! I must go and tell Mary." He was hurrying from the room, but his friend caught his arm. "No, no; not yet," he said hurriedly. "I would not raise her hopes too much." "Not when she is starving for the merest crumb of comfort? I must tell her." "Then be content to say I think she is a trifle better," whispered North. "But the climax must have come and gone?" "I--I am not sure. The case is peculiar. Do as I say, and give her the crumb of comfort of which you spoke. To-morrow, perhaps, I can speak more definitely." Hartley Salis left the room, and North once more bent over the bed. His heart beat, his pulses throbbed, and the nerves in his temples seemed to tingle, as he laid his hand upon the burning brow, placed a finger upon the wrist, where the pulse beat so hard and pitifully, while, when he softly raised one of the blue-veined eyelids and gazed at the pupil, he drew back slowly, and shaded the sick girl's face from the light. It was growing late, the wind howled mournfully about the house, and from time to time there was a soft, patting noise at the window, as of some one tapping the panes with finger-tips. So high was the wind without that the candle flames were at times wafted to and fro. Horace North had left the bedside, and was standing with his foot upon the fender, gazing down into the tiny glowing caverns in the fire, where the cinders fell together from time to time with a peculiar musical sound--the sound that strikes a watcher's ear so strangely in the long hours of the night. His thoughts were wild, and a tempest was raging in his breast as furious as that without. Love had made its first attack upon a strong man, and the wound was rankling. His brain was confused. He was almost giddy with his new sensations, astonished at the position in which he found himself. He had been keen enough man of the world to understand Mrs Berens' tender, shrinking advances, and they had been to him by turns a cause of annoyance and of mirth. But this was a novel and an intense delight. He could not have believed that he could be so moved. It was a hard fight, but the man of honour won. "I am her brother's friend; I am her medical attendant," he mused; "and neither by word nor look will I betray what passes in my heart till she is well. Then I, too, will lay bare the secret I shall hide." "And if she speaks to you again as she spoke a while ago--what then?"