Two days afterwards Roger Orme died. On the afternoon of the funeral, Miss Winifred Goode sat in the old garden in the shade of the clipped yew, and looked at the house in which she had been born, and in which she had passed her sixty years of life, and at the old wistaria beneath which he had kissed her forty years ago. She smiled and murmured aloud: "No, I would not have had a single thing different." III A LOVER'S DILEMMA "How are you feeling now?" Words could not express the music of these six liquid syllables that fell through the stillness and the blackness on my ears. "Not very bright, I'm afraid, nurse," said I. Think of something to do with streams and moonlight, and you may have an idea of the mellow ripple of the laugh I heard. "I'm not the nurse. Can't you tell the difference? I'm Miss Deane--Dr. Deane's daughter." "Deane?" I echoed. "Don't you know where you are?" "Every thing is still confused," said I. I had an idea that they had carried me somewhere by train and put me into a bed, and that soft-fingered people had tended my eyes; but where I was I neither knew nor cared. Torture and blindness had been quite enough to occupy my mind. "You are at Dr. Deane's house," said the voice, "and Dr. Deane is the twin brother of Mr. Deane, the great oculist of Grandchester, who was summoned to Shepton-Marling when you met with your accident. Perhaps you know you had a gun accident?" "I suppose it was only that after all," said I, "but it felt like the disruption of the solar system." "Are you still in great pain?" my unseen hostess asked sympathetically. "Not since you have been in the room. I mean," I added, chilled by a span of silence, "I mean--I am just stating what happens to be a fact." "Oh!" she said shortly. "Well, my uncle found that you couldn't be properly treated at your friend's little place at Shepton-Marling, so he brought you to Grandchester--and here you are." "But I don't understand," said I, "why I should be a guest in your house." "You are not a guest," she laughed. "You are here on the most sordid and commercial footing. Your friend--I forget his name----" "Mobray," said I. "Mr. Mobray settled it with my uncle. You see the house is large and father's practice small, as we keep a nursing home for my uncle's patients. Of course we have trained nurses." "Are you one?" I asked. "Not exactly. I do the housekeeping. But I can settle those uncomfortable pillows." I felt her dexterous cool hands about my head and neck. For a moment or two my eyes ceased to ache, and I wished I could see her. In tendering my thanks, I expressed the wish. She laughed her delicious laugh. "If you could see you wouldn't be here, and therefore you couldn't see me anyhow." "Shall I ever see you?" I asked dismally. "Why, of course! Don't you know that Henry Deane is one of the greatest oculists in England?"