There followed for me after these solemn words of the Bishop a phantasmagoria of human faces, and sky, and tree-tops, and a singing in my ears, now loud, now soft, in which all other sounds and movements seemed blended. I have an indistinct recollection of the walk home, and of finding myself in my own room. Then memory gradually faded away from me. Blank unconsciousness enveloped me like a cloud. The next thing I remember is waking up one morning as though after a terrible dream, a night of nightmares, and finding the room half full of medicine bottles. I looked around me faintly curious, inexpressibly bewildered; I suddenly realized that I had been ill. I was not alone. Alice was standing over me, her round, honest little face beaming with pleasure and her underlip quivering. “You are better,” she said, softly. “I am so glad.” “How long have I been here?” I asked. She sat down by my side. “A week to-morrow! Just think of it.” I closed my eyes. The little scene in the churchyard had suddenly risen up again before my eyes. My head commenced to swim. I asked no more questions. The next morning I was stronger. I sat up in bed and looked around. The first thing which I noticed was that the room was full of the most beautiful flowers; I stooped over a vase of roses and smelt them. The air was almost faint with their delicious perfume. “Where did they all come from?” I asked Alice. She laughed in rather an odd manner. “From whom do you suppose?” she asked. “How should I know?” I protested, faintly. “I have not an idea.” “From the _bête noir_,” she exclaimed, plucking off one of the yellow blossoms and placing it upon my pillow. I still looked blankly at her. She laughed. “Can’t you really guess?” she asked. I shook my head. I really had no idea. “From Mr. Deville. He has called nearly every day to ask after you.” It was surprising enough, but I said very little. I suppose I was not considered strong enough then to hear any news of importance; but several days later, when I was sitting up, Alice looked up from the book she was reading aloud to me and told me something which I know she must have had very hard work to have kept to herself for so long. “Father is to be made a canon, Kate,” she said, triumphantly. I looked up at her bewildered. I had forgotten all about Lady Naselton’s plans on his behalf. The latter part of this terrible Sunday had haunted me like a nightmare, usurping all my thoughts. There had been little room for other memories. “A canon!” I repeated, feebly. “Do you mean it, Alice?” She nodded. “The Bishop came here from Lady Naselton’s. He said a lot of nice things to father about his sermon on--that Sunday night--you remember.” “It was a wonderful sermon,” I whispered. “So the Bishop thinks; so every one thinks,” Alice declared, with enthusiasm. “I shall never forget how I felt. And he had no notes, or anything.”