When Hyacinth rose the next morning, it was as though long years had passed over her. Lady Dartelle was not unkind or ungrateful. She sent to ask if Miss Holte was better and able to resume her work; she also desired the housekeeper to see that the governess had all she required, and then, thinking that she had done her duty, she forgot all about her. Hyacinth resumed her work, but a burning thirst was upon her--a thirst that could not be quenched. Adrian was near her, he was under the same roof, breathing the same air, his eyes would rest on the same scenes, he would speak every day to the same people. A fever that nothing could cool seemed to run riot in her veins; her heart burned, her eyes were hot and weary with watching--a thirst, a longing, a fever, a very madness possessed her, and she could not control it. She must see him; she must look upon his face, even should his glance slay her--for she had loved him so dearly, and in all her lonely life she had never loved any one else. As flowers thirst in the sultry heat for dew, as the tired deer longs for cooling streams, so she craved for one glance at the face that had made all the sunshine and brightness of earth for her. So she watched and waited. She promised herself this one short glimpse of happiness. She would look on his face, giving full vent to all the passionate love of her heart, and then welcome darkness, oblivion, and death. Once, in crossing the upper corridor, the door of the billiard-room suddenly opened, and she heard the sound of laughter and of many voices; his was among them--clear, rich, distinct--the old musical tone that had so often made her heart thrill. The sound of it smote her like a deadly blow. She shrunk back, pale with the pallor of death, faint, trembling. "My love, my love," murmured the white lips. Hyacinth bent eagerly forward--she would have given much to hear the sound again, but it had ceased--the door was closed, and she went on to her room like one who had stood outside the gates of an earthly paradise, yet knew that those gates were never to be opened. Her recent experiences increased the fever of her longing--a fever that soon began to show itself in her face. She became unwontedly lovely, her beautiful violet eyes shone with a brilliancy and light almost painful to see, the red lips were parted as the lips of one who suffers from intensity of pain, the white hands grew burning hot; the fever of longing was wearing her very life away, and she thought she could still it by one look at his face. She might as well have tried to extinguish flame by pouring oil upon it. At last the chance she had waited and watched for came. Veronica sent to ask her to go to her room. "I want you to grant me a great favor," she said. "My maid is correct in her ideas of dress, but she has no idea of flowers. I have some flowers here, and knowing your great taste, I should be obliged to you if you would arrange a spray for my hair."