“Let me see her,” she said. Mrs. Royce led the way upstairs. She went at an unusual rate of speed, so that she was panting when she reached the top. “Kind of vi’lent!” she whispered, pointing downstairs, where Captain Grey was. “This room?” asked Lexy. “Shall I go in?” “Well,” said Mrs. Royce, “seems to me I’d knock, if I was you.” Knock on the door of the room where Mrs. Quelton lay? Knock, and expect an answer from that voice? It seemed to Lexy, for a moment, that she could not raise her hand. But she did. She knocked, and she was answered. She turned the handle and went in. An oil lamp stood on the bureau, and outside the circle of its mellow light, in the shadow, Mrs. Quelton was sitting on the edge of the bed; and it seemed to Lexy that she had never seen such a forlorn and pitiful figure. “Oh, my dear!” she cried impulsively, and held out her arms. Mrs. Quelton rose. She came toward Lexy, her hands outstretched—when a sudden cry from Mrs. Royce arrested her. “But that ain’t Mrs. Quelton!” cried the landlady. XXIV If Lexy had not caught the unhappy woman, she would have fallen; but those sturdy young arms held her, and, with Mrs. Royce’s help, they got her on the bed. White as a ghost, incredibly frail in her black dress, she lay there, scarcely seeming to breathe. “It _ain’t_ Mrs. Quelton!” repeated Mrs. Royce, in a whisper. “I know!” said Lexy softly. “Will you get me water and a towel, please?” Mrs. Royce went out of the room, and Lexy knelt down beside the bed. She did know now—the woman whom they had all called Muriel Quelton was really Caroline Enderby. Lexy did not blame herself for not having known before. Looking at that face now, in its terrible stillness, she could trace the familiar features easily enough, but how changed! How worn and lined, how _old_! The brows, the lashes, the soft, disordered hair, were black now instead of brown; but that merely physical alteration was of no significance, compared with that other awful change. It was Caroline Enderby, the gentle and pitifully inexperienced girl of nineteen, but it was Mrs. Quelton, too, that tragic and somber figure. Mrs. Royce came back with a basin of water, clean towels, and a precious bottle of eau de Cologne. “Poor lamb!” she whispered. “Ain’t she pretty?” Lexy wet a towel and passed it over that unconscious face again and again. Mrs. Royce watched, spellbound; for the dark and haggard stranger was passing away before her very eyes, and some one else was coming into life—some one quite young and— The closed lids fluttered, and then opened. “Lexy!” murmured the metamorphosed one. “I’m here, Caroline!” said Lexy, with a stifled sob. “Everything’s all right, dear! Don’t worry—just rest!” “I can’t, Lexy! I can’t!” she answered, and from her eyes, now closed again, tears came running slowly down her cheeks. “Yes, you can!” said Lexy. “We’ll—”