His brain had been rendered irritable by his anxious watching, and as soon as he beheld her a great rage seized him. He said to himself that it was this woman and her crew that had tortured, maddened his little wife: and now she, the worst of all, had even dared to beard him within his own doors. Scarcely knowing what he did, he approached her, his arm doubled menacingly, and trembling with passion. "What are you doing here, woman?" he cried. "Another of the accursed brood! Out, or I shall forget myself--out, I say! But no! stay here! you shall not go out," he went to the door, locked it and put the key in his pocket. "You will have to tell me what all this means before I let you go, Mrs. King." "That is exactly what I have come here to do, Dr. Duncan," she replied quietly. She was standing firmly and proudly, meeting his furious look with a calm sad eye in which there was no wrath or fear, but a great pity. He saw that look, and in spite of his strong prejudice against her, he felt the sympathy of it, so he checked himself and stood still, gazing at her with an expression of doubt and wonder on his face. She spoke again: "Dr. Duncan, you will understand me soon. You altogether mistake my intentions now, and no great wonder is it that you do. Dr. Duncan, believe me, I have come to save your wife, to bring her happiness back to her, to make reparation for a great wrong, before I die." He looked at her face and clearly perceived the signs of fatal illness on the passion-lined features. He was touched. He felt that the woman was speaking the truth; he imagined that he might be wrong after all in his suspicions of her--she might have come as a friend and not as a foe. "Take this chair, Mrs. King," he said kindly. "You look very tired. I apologize for my ungentlemanly rudeness, but I am off my head almost with worry and anxiety. I am very glad you have come. You can throw some light on all this. I must tell you"--and he scanned her face earnestly as he spoke--"that certain circumstances have made me suspect that you have something to do with the cause of my wife's illness." "I have all to do with your wife's illness. I am the cause of it," Catherine replied, meeting his eye fearlessly. "Dr. Duncan, I have much to say to you. I will help you to understand Mary's illness. I will teach you how to ward off all danger from her for the future, and I will bring peace to her mind." She placed her hand to her heart, as if in pain, and looked so ill that he exclaimed, "Mrs. King, you are seriously ill--you must not excite yourself--speak quietly, I entreat you." "I know that--I am dying; but I have come to save Mary's life." She dwelt lovingly on the beloved syllables of the girl's name, and she closed her eyes for a moment to shut out the present, as the picture of the old happy days, when her darling lived with her, rose to her memory.