We did not either of us say another word until we got to Ivy Hall. It was a rambling old house, with numerous low rooms and a big entrance-hall. I could fancy that in the summer it was cheerful enough, with its large, walled-in garden. The night was a dark one, but there would be a moon presently. Gabrielle was waiting in the hall to receive us. "I will take you to the door of mother's room," she exclaimed. Her words came out tremblingly, her face was like death. She was shaking all over. She ran up the stairs before us, and then down a long passage which led to a room a little apart from the rest of the house. "I told you mother wished to sleep in a room as far away from me as possible," she said, flashing a glance into my face as she spoke. I nodded in reply. We opened the door and went in. The sight which met our eyes was one with which most medical men are familiar. The patient was lying on the bed in a state of violent delirium. Two maid-servants were bending over her, and evidently much exciting her feelings in their efforts to hold her down. I spoke at once with authority. "You can leave the room now," I said--"only remain within call in case you are wanted." They obeyed instantly, looking at me with surprised glances, and at Mackenzie with manifest relief. I shut the door after them and approached the bed. One glance showed that Mrs. Heathcote was not mad in the ordinary sense, but that she was suffering at the moment from acute delirium. I put my hand on her forehead: it burned with fever. Her pulse was rapid and uneven. Mackenzie took her temperature, which was very nearly a hundred and four degrees. While we were examining her she remained quiet, but presently, as we stood together and watched her, she began to rave again. "What is it, Gabrielle? No, no, he is quite dead, child. I tell you I saw the men screw his coffin down. He's dead--quite dead. Oh, God! oh, God! yes, dead, dead!" She sat up in bed and stared straight before her. "You mustn't come here so often," she said, looking past us into the centre of the room, and addressing someone whom she seemed to see with distinctness, "I tell you it isn't safe. Gabrielle suspects. Don't come so often--I'll manage some other way. Trust me. Do trust me. You know I won't let you starve. Oh, go away, go away." She flung herself back on the bed and pressed her hands frantically to her burning eyes. "Your father has been dead six months now, Gabrielle," she said, presently, in a changed voice.