When, he had reached a certain point Sir Hugh failed to make any further progress. The London physician, Dr. Conway, frankly owned that Sir Hugh's case completely baffled his medical skill and experience. Just when they had least expected it the fever had abated, and he had begun to amend, and now he as steadily refused to get well. Day after day he lay in an extremity of weakness that was pitiable to witness; and ever, as time went on, seemed sinking slowly from sheer inanition and exhaustion. After all there must be some strange mischief at work, he said; but Dr. Martin was of a different opinion. He had seen enough of his patient by this time to be sure that there was sickness of heart as well as of brain, and that it needed some other healing power than theirs before the man could throw off the load of oppression that was retarding his recovery and, gathering up his wasted energies, take up his life again. But now he seemed very far from recovery. Day after day he lay with that far-off look on his face that it made Fay weep to see, for she thought that he must surely die. Hugh thought so too. Hour by hour he felt himself drifting nearer to the dark valley which, to his tired eyes and heart, seemed only like some still haven of repose. Only to sleep, he said, to sleep--to rest--and with his white lips he murmured, "and may God have mercy on my soul." And ever he longed and prayed that he might see Margaret again. And one night he dreamed of her. He dreamed that he was dying--as he surely believed he was--and that Margaret came to his bedside and looked at him. He could see her distinctly; the pale, beautiful face, the folds of her dress, the wave of her dead-brown hair. And when he awoke and saw only the spring sunshine filling the room, and quivering light under his eyelids, and knew that the fresh day was dawning brightly to all but him, he could not suppress the groan that rose to his lips, "Margaret, Margaret." Fay was sitting by him, but the curtain concealed her; she had been curled up for hours in the big arm-chair that stood at the head of the bed. It was her habit to rise early and go to her husband's room and send the nurse to rest; indeed, Dr. Martin had to use all his authority to induce her to take needful exercise, for Fay begrudged every moment spent out of the sick-room. She was looking out at the avenue and listening to the soft soughing of the spring breezes in the tree-tops, and thinking of the summer days that were to bring her a marvelous gift; but at the sound of Hugh's agonized voice her day-dream vanished. "Margaret, Margaret," he had said, and then almost with a sob, "my one and only love, Margaret." No! she was not asleep, the words were ringing in her ears. Hugh, her Hugh, had spoken them, "My one and only love, Margaret."