She tried to persuade her daughter to accompany them, but Miss Rochester, feeling that the period of convalescence might prove to be an impressionable one with Dr. Winthrop, refused to go, and fondly hoped that the next two or three weeks would decide her destiny beyond all question. Dr. Winthrop still retained Sister Angela, although she had several times spoken of returning to Paris, since he had become so much better. He was opposed to her leaving him, however—he had pleaded for “just a week longer,” saying that she was so helpful, her presence so soothing—not to mention the preparation of certain dainties with which she was continually tempting his appetite—that he could not give her up just yet; and so she remained. The week soon slipped by, the last day came, and Sister Angela seemed strangely agitated and depressed. Dr. Winthrop thought he had never seen her so nervous or so absent-minded, and blamed himself for requiring the service of this extra week, when she was so nearly worn out from constant attendance. She went down as usual to prepare something especially nice for his dinner—the last meal she would take up to him—and, having finished her work and arranged everything temptingly upon a tray, she slowly mounted the stairs on her way to his room with it in her hands. She had reached the top stair when a sudden dizziness seized her, an icy chill ran over her frame, and she had barely time to set her tray upon the floor when she fell prone beside it in a dead faint. The sound of her fall drew Mrs. Rochester and her daughter from their room—for she had fallen just opposite their door—to see what had happened. Dr. Winthrop’s room was some distance from the spot, and part way down another passage, so that the confusion attending Sister Angela’s mishap—fortunately or unfortunately—did not reach his ears and he knew nothing of it until afterward. “Mercy! it is that nun!” exclaimed Miss Rochester, who was first to reach the unconscious girl, while she gazed with startled and curious eyes upon her prostrate form. “She is worn out,” said Mrs. Rochester, as she dropped upon her knees and began to loosen the bandages about Sister Angela’s face, and tore her close black cap from her head, thus revealing a wealth of beautiful black hair. “Why, she looks like——” she began, then suddenly checking herself, she quickly removed the double blue glasses which had always so effectually concealed her eyes. A cry of astonishment and dismay burst from her lips, which had lost every atom of color. “S—adie!” she gasped, lifting a pair of wild eyes to her daughter’s face. “For goodness’ sake, mamma, what is the matter?” inquired the girl, who had not yet had a full view of the features thus exposed to view. “Look!” whispered the mother, hoarsely. She bent down to look into that still, white face; then she lifted her glance, and those two women gazed into each other’s eyes with speechless amazement and unmistakable terror.