“I believe I was wrong about Henderson; at least the disagreeable went no further than that he is supposed to be the channel through which Lady Dorothea occasionally issues directions, not always in agreement with Mary's notions. And as your niece never liked the man, the measures are not more palatable when they come through his intervention.” Lady Dorothea was still pondering over this letter, in which there were so many things to consider, when a hurried message called her to the sick-room. As she approached the room, she could hear Martin's voice calling imperiously and angrily to the servants, and ordering them to dress him. The difficulty of utterance seemed to increase his irritation, and gave to his words a harsh, discordant tone, very unlike his natural voice. “So,” cried he, as she entered, “you have come at last. I am nigh exhausted with telling them what I want. I must get up, Dora. They must help me to dress.” As he was thus speaking, the servants, at a gesture from her Ladyship, quietly stole from the chamber, leaving her alone at his bedside. “You are too weak for this exertion, Godfrey,” said she, calmly. “Any effort like this is certain to injure you.” “You think so?” asked he, with the tone of deference that he generally used towards her. “Perhaps you are right, Dora; but how can it be helped?--there is so much to do, such a long way to travel. What a strange confusion is over me! Do you know, Dolly,”--here his voice fell to a mere whisper,--“you'll scarcely credit it; but all the time I have been fancying myself at Cro' Martin, and here we are in--in--what do you call the place?” “Baden.” “Yes--yes--but the country?” “Germany.” “Ay, to be sure, Germany; hundreds of miles away from home!” Here he raised himself on one arm, and cast a look of searching eagerness through the room. “Is he gone?” whispered he, timidly. “Of whom are you speaking?” said she. “Hush, Dolly, hush!” whispered he, still lower. “I promised I 'd not tell any one, even you, of his being here. But I must speak of it--I must--or my brain will turn. He was here--he sat in that very chair--he held my hand within both his own. Poor, poor fellow! how his eyes filled when he saw me! He little knew how changed he himself was!--his hair white as snow, and his eyes so dimmed!” “This was a dream, Godfrey,--only a dream!” “I thought you 'd say so,--I knew it,” said he, sorrowfully; “but _I_ know better. The dear old voice rang in my heart as I used to hear it when a child, as he said, 'Do you remember me?' To be sure I remembered him, and told him to go and fetch Molly; and his brow darkened when I said this, and he drew back his hand and said, 'You have deserted her,--she is not here!'” “All this is mere fancy, Godfrey; you have been dreaming of home.”