It was as if a soft voice had whispered those words in his ear, and he shivered as he asked himself, "What shall I say?" "It is all madness," he cried fiercely--"utter madness. They were the outpourings of her diseased brain. Am I growing into an idiot? Has much study of the occult wonders of our life half turned my brain?" He walked quickly to the bed, took up the candle, and let its light fall upon the flushed face for a few moments, a face looking so beautifully attractive with its wealth of rich hair tossed away over the white pillow. He set down the candle, and pressed his hand softly once more upon her burning brow, listening the while to the dull throbbings of his heart. "Yes, Horace North," he said at last, "you, the much-praised would-be _savant_, are as weak as the weakest of your sex, ready to be flattered into a passion by the first sweet words which fall from a woman's lips. You are strong in knowledge, you have mastered endless difficulties, but you have not mastered Horace North." "Fool--fool--fool!" he whispered to himself, after a pause; "with all your study to be so ready to rush to such a belief--ready to forget the trust reposed in you by a true man, by his sweet-minded sister, and, as it were, by you, my poor helpless girl. Spoken in your wild delirium, my child--the emanations of a young girl's brain, of one whose waking thoughts must, Nature taught, be almost always of who is to be your mate through life. You opened the secret casket of your heart, my child, when helpless and without control, and I have gazed therein with prying eyes. But sleep in peace; they shall be secrets still. Yes," he added, once more, as he drew steadily back--"delirium: she knows not what she says." A sigh from the sleeper made him pause, and then a low, musical laugh rang out, followed by a quick muttering. Then once more the low laugh was heard, and the muttering became louder--then plainly heard, as if the speaker were in a merry protesting mood. "You ask so much. Again? Well, I will confess. Yes, I do love you-- with all my poor weak heart!" CHAPTER TWENTY. A VENERABLE OLD MAN. "No, Moredock, I am not going to find more fault, and I am not going to complain to the rector. If you had been a young man, with chances of getting work elsewhere, I should have had you discharged at once." "Ay, discharged at once," said the old man, trying to bite his livid lip with one very yellow old tooth, as he stood in the vestry doorway, looking down at the curate. "But as you are a venerable old man--" "Gently, Parson Salis; a bit old, but not venerable," grumbled the sexton. "I shall look over it, and not disturb you for the short time you have to live upon this earth. But--" "Now, don't go on like that, sir, and don't get talking about little time on earth. I may live a many years."