It was very quiet and still--one of the strange nurses was sitting by the bed with her face toward the patient; she had not heard Fay's stealthy entrance; the next moment Fay choked back a sob that threatened to rise in her throat, for she had caught sight at last of the white changed face that lay on the pillow; and then, regardless of everything but her love and longing, she glided quickly to the bed, and kissing the wide staring eyes, laid the shaven head tenderly upon her bosom. "Oh, my lady!" exclaimed the nurse, in a terrified voice, "this is very wrong--very wrong indeed." "Hush--I am his wife--I have a right to be here. You know me, do you not, my darling Hugh?" Poor Fay! she had her punishment then; for Hugh did not know her in the least, and seemed to shrink from her with horror; he begged her to send Margaret to him--his dear Margaret, and not stand there like some white horrible statue dressed up in grave-clothes. "You had better go, my lady, you are only exciting him," observed the nurse, quietly; and Fay wrung her hands and hurried from the room. Saville found her crouching against the dressing-room door, with her face hidden in her hands, and fetched Mrs. Heron at once to coax her away; but Fay hardly seemed to understand their meaning; her face had a white, strained look upon it as Mrs. Heron put her arm round her and led her tenderly to her room. CHAPTER XX. "LITTLE JOYCE." In the cruel fire of sorrow Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail, Let thy heart be firm and steady, Do not let thy spirit quail; But wait till the trial be over And take thy heart again; For as gold is tried by fire, A heart must be tried by pain. ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. "Oh, my lady, what will Doctor Martin say?" exclaimed Mrs. Heron, as she almost lifted her young mistress on to the couch, and stood over her rubbing her cold hands. It was a warm April evening, but Fay was shivering and her teeth chattering as though with cold. "What does it matter what he says?" returned Fay; the girl's lips were white, and there was still a scared look in her eyes. "Is that why they would not let me see him--because they have cut off his hair and made him look so unlike himself, and because he talks so strangely?" "Yes, my lady, and for your own good, and because--" but Fay interrupted her excitedly. "My good? as though anything could do me good while my darling husband suffers so cruelly. Oh, Mrs. Heron, would you believe it? he did not know me; he looked as though he were afraid of me, his own wife: he told me to go away and not touch him, and to send Margaret. Oh," with a sort of restless despair in her voice, "who is this Margaret of whom he always speaks?"