“Well,” she frankly admitted, after a moment of silence, “I must admit that I wish Norman Winthrop had been Milton Hamilton’s favorite nephew and heir; he is far more congenial in some respects than his very dignified and extremely conscientious brother; but since he hasn’t a sufficient fortune to tempt me, and I am bound to have money, I must put up with the other——” “Hush!” her mother interrupted at this point; “she is coming to herself,” and she pointed to the figure upon the lounge, which just then began to stir feebly. Suspended animation was gradually reasserting itself in Salome; a long-drawn sigh heaved her breast, and then she slowly opened her eyes and looked around her. Mrs. Rochester and her daughter were seated together, not far from the head of the lounge, and thus the reviving girl could not see them as she began to come to herself. They made no sound nor movement, but sat watching to see what she would do or say when she should entirely recover consciousness. “Where am I? what has happened?” Salome murmured, as her wandering eyes rested upon objects which she had never seen before. She had never been in those rooms, and had only now and then met their occupants as she passed to and fro through the halls on her duties, or when they came for a moment to Dr. Winthrop’s door to inquire how he was. She had never exchanged a word with either of them, except on that night when Miss Rochester had stolen in upon her when her patient was so ill. An expression of surprise stole into her eyes, and she put her hand in a confused way to her head, when she was startled to find that her cap and bandages had all been removed; her glasses, too, were gone. A feeling of fear and dismay seized her. “Why, why!” she cried, in a tone of distress; then she struggled to a sitting posture, and looked about her with a frightened stare. Instantly she encountered the sullen glances of the two women who were watching her. “Ah!—Mrs. Rochester!” she gasped. “Yes, that is my name, Miss Howland—or perhaps you would prefer to be addressed by your latest alias, ‘Sister Angela,’” that lady sarcastically remarked. “Really, Salome, you have not shown your usual good taste by masquerading in that ugly gray costume,” said Miss Rochester, with a sneer. “I confess,” she added, “it has been an excellent disguise, since neither mamma nor I have been able to penetrate it, until you were so unfortunate as to faint just outside our door a few minutes ago.” “Oh, you will not betray me——” Salome began, appealingly. “Betray you!—to whom?” sternly demanded Mrs. Rochester. “To my—to Dr. Winthrop,” murmured the distressed girl, as she tried to replace her disguise with her trembling hands, and looked around for her glasses.