“What do you think of him?” she asked, trying in vain to get a view of the nun’s averted face. “No better—no worse,” she briefly replied, in a muffled tone. “Thank Heaven he is no worse!” the girl said, with a sigh. “Do you think he can possibly rally?” “I—hope so; he has a strong constitution.” “You will do your best, I know,” Miss Rochester said, earnestly; “you have done your best through all our trouble here. I have heard of your wonderful faithfulness and powers of endurance, and I have longed to see you. I suppose it is not just proper for me to come here to-night—mamma would scold if she knew it; but I had to come to see for myself just how he is. How dreadful he looks!—how pinched and ghastly his face!—how thin and white his hands! I—I suppose you know that I—expect to be his—wife—if he lives,” she concluded, with a conscious glance toward the nun, as if she thought this apology for her presence was necessary. Sister Angela made no reply; but Miss Rochester thought she saw her shiver, and a flush dyed her cheek. “I suppose it sounds strangely to you to hear me speak of marriage with one who seems so near death,” she said; “but I thought you ought to know why I came, and it is natural that I should be anxious.” Then regarding her companion more closely, she asked, curiously: “What is the matter with your eyes, sister? Why do you wear those queer double spectacles?” “Hush! Mademoiselle must not remain longer—it will disturb monsieur, if we talk,” the nurse returned, without looking at her, and ignoring her question; “besides, mademoiselle will take cold, and be in danger of another attack herself.” And walking quietly to the door, she opened it, and waited for the girl to pass out. Miss Rochester dared not disobey this unmistakable dismissal, and after bestowing one more look upon the unconscious sufferer, she went softly out, whispering, with an appealing glance: “Save him, I beseech you, Sister, and I shall be eternally grateful; you little know how much depends upon his life.” “My darling—my darling,” murmured the invalid, stirring uneasily upon his pillow. Hastily closing the door upon the unceremonious intruder, Sister Angela flew back to her post by the bed, but with face and lips white as the spotless bandage about her brow, and shivering as with the ague. The next day there was a slight improvement in Dr. Winthrop’s condition, then the symptoms were discouraging; after that the crisis came, was passed, and then there was a perceptible gain. A week later he was improving rapidly—another passed and he was able to sit up; then seeing how worn and thin his mother and Evelyn were again looking, from the anxiety which they had suffered upon his account, he insisted that they should go to some watering-place to recuperate for a few weeks. Mrs. Rochester, who alone, with the exception of Norman Winthrop, had escaped the terrible scourge, said she would remain and direct the household until they were able to return.