Everard Dawn lay still and silent, just faintly breathing, as before, and Mrs. Varian’s dark head was bent down, resting upon the patient’s hand. She motioned Janetta to her side, saying, gently: “You may share my vigil, Janetta, and because I know this seems strange to you, I will confide in you. We loved each other very dearly once, this man and I, but a wicked woman came between us and wrecked my happiness. I tried to hate him, but now that he is dying, the old love rises in me again, and my heart is breaking.” That was all; but she knew she was sure of the other woman’s sympathy. Janetta might marvel at the utter breaking down of the proudest woman she had ever known, but she would love her better for her constancy and her womanly tenderness. So they kept their lonely vigils by the sufferer, who for twenty-four hours gave no sign of knowing aught, until they began to fear that he would pass into the other world without a sign or token to those left on earth. Mrs. Flint had been told that an old friend of her brother would help to nurse him; but when she saw that it was Mrs. Varian, she was filled with secret wonder that found expression in the words: “He never told me that he knew you, madame; but I do not see how he could have forgotten one like you.” Mrs. Varian smiled with transient bitterness, but made no reply to the frank compliment, only showing her appreciation of it by simple, unaffected kindness to the grieving sister. The night and the day wore away, and in the early dusk of the December eve Everard Dawn suddenly opened his eyes with full consciousness in them, and met the eager glance of large, dark, sorrowful orbs. “Oh, Everard, it is I--_Paulina_! Do you know me?” she murmured, prayerfully. In a broken whisper, he answered: “I know you.” Then his eyes closed again, and with a stifled sob, Mrs. Varian sent Janetta to tell the doctor. He hastened to his side, delighted to find that his patient had rallied; but he whispered to the anxious watcher: “I do not dare bid you hope anything from this. The case is most uncertain.” She bowed her head in silence; but from that moment not a movement of the invalid passed unwatched. He had recovered his consciousness, but the doctor saw in him as yet no certain chance of recovery. He was very still and quiet, speaking only when addressed, and lying always with half-closed eyes that seemed to notice nothing. At times they opened wider and followed Mrs. Varian’s movements about the room, but he did not permit her to surprise that scrutiny. She was tender, but very timid, scarcely daring to offer the least attention, lest it be repulsed. There rang in her memory always some words he had uttered long ago: “Paulina, you have put upon me an unmerited disgrace and a cruel wrong. I will never forgive you as long as I live!” Again, in the garden at Idlewild, three years ago, he had said to her most bitterly: “Do not think I have come to forgive you!”