And, while he lay drowsily musing on the unfinished dream, a muffled murmur of women’s voices reached his ears. By an intuition, akin perhaps to animal instinct, he knew all at once that it was she, talking with Mrs. Parkin down in the room below. Prompted by a rush of imperious impulse he raised himself on his elbow to listen. There was a rustling of skirts in the passage and the sound of the voices grew clearer. “Good day, ma’am, and thank ye very kindly, I’m sure,” Mrs. Parkin was saying. No reply came, though he was straining every nerve to catch it.... At last, subdued, but altogether distinct, _her_ voice: “You’re sure there’s nothing else I can send?” The door of his room was ajar. He dug his nails into the panel-edge, and tried to swing it open. But he could scarcely move it, and in a moment she would be gone. Suddenly he heard his own voice--loud and queer it sounded: “Ethel--Ethel.” Hurried steps mounted the stairs, and Mrs. Parkin’s white cap and spectacled face appeared. “What be t’ matter, Mr. Burkett?” she asked breathlessly. “Stop her--tell her.” “Dearie, dearie me, he’s off wanderin’ agin.” “No, no; I’m all right--tell--ask Mrs. Fulton if she would come up to see me?” “There, there, Mr. Burkett, don’t ye excite yeself. Ye’re not fit to see any one, ye know that. Lie ye doon agin, or ye’ll be catchin’ yer death o’ cauld.” “Ask her to come, please--just for a minute.” “For Heaven’s sake lie doon. Ye’ll be workin’ yeself into a fever next. There, there, I’ll ask her for ye, though I’ve na notion what t’ doctor ’ud say.” She drew down the blind and retired, closing the door quietly behind her. The next thing he saw was Ethel standing by his bedside. He lay watching her without speaking. She wore a red dress trimmed with fur; a gold bracelet was round her gloved wrist, and a veil half-hid her features. Presently he perceived that she was very white, that her mouth was twitching, and that her eyes were full of tears. “Alec--I’m so sorry you’re so ill.... Are you in pain?” He shook his head absently. Her veil and the fur on her cloak looked odd, he thought, in the half-light of the room. “You will be better soon: the worst is over.” “No,” he answered, with a dreary smile. “I am going to die.” She burst into sobs. “No, no, Alec.... You must not think that.” He stretched his arm over the coverlet towards her, and felt the soft pressure of her gloved hand. “Forgive me, Ethel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pain you. But it is so; the doctor told me this morning.” She sat down by the bedside, still crying, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes. “Ethel, how strange it seems. Do you know I haven’t seen you since I left Cockermouth?” The words came deliberately, for his mind had grown quite calm. “How the time has flown!” Her grasp on his hand tightened, but she made no answer.