Then, after a thorough examination, it was ascertained that her injuries was not nearly so serious as had at first been feared. There was a severe contusion on one side, where the broken timbers of the car had pinned her down to the floor; she had several ugly scratches and flesh wounds, besides bruises on the head, and one ankle was badly sprained. The stupor, as the physician thought, had been caused more by the shock to the whole nervous system than by her injuries, and he now said that if no new symptoms developed she would improve rapidly. And it proved even so. At the end of a week she was able to be bolstered up in bed, and began to appear more like herself and to realize that she had another lease of life. She had conceived a great liking for Virgie, although she had not been told, neither had she recognized the fact that she had saved her from death at the time of the accident. She treated her with the greatest deference—an unusual thing for the haughty woman under any circumstances—and expressed a great deal of gratitude for the attention she so freely bestowed upon her. Once she had begged to be told her name, and Virgie had told her to call her “nurse.” She shrank from telling her who she was lest she should recognize her. “But you are not a nurse, you are a lady,” she persisted, “and you are so kind to me I want to know you.” Virgie could not fail to feel a thrill of triumph at these words, she, who had been “that girl” and who had been held up to such scorn and contempt in those cruel letters so long ago. “I am simply your nurse for the present,” she replied, with averted face; “perhaps some other time before I leave you I will tell you my name,” and her ladyship had to be content with that. But Virgie did not remain quite so much with her after that, she did not need such constant care, and she left her more with the woman of the house. She went in several times every day, and was careful to see that she had every attention, but there was a quiet dignity and reserve about her which Lady Linton admired. “Who is this beautiful woman who has been so kind to me—to whom I owe so much?” she asked the doctor one day. “Truly she is a beautiful woman, and you do owe her a great deal. You owe her your life twice over,” he answered, impressively. “How so?” was the surprised query. “In the first place she saved you from that burning wreck almost at the risk of her own life; in the second place she is the only one in the town who could be found to give you proper care; everybody else was engaged with the other sufferers, and during those days and nights when you lay in that heavy stupor, she never left you; she fed you, she ministered most faithfully to your every need, and brought you safely out of it.” “Was it she who came to me when I lay pinned down in my berth?” asked Lady Linton, gravely. “Yes, madam.” “Who is she?”