III.

When she woke again, it was morning; and her first waking consciousness was, that she must be much better.  The choking sensation in her throat was altogether gone.  She had no desire to cough—­no difficulty in breathing.  She had a fancy, however, that she must be still dreaming, for she felt sure that some one had called her by her name, “Mary.”  Now all who could call her by her Christian name were dead years ago; therefore it must be a dream.  However, in a short time it was repeated,—­“Mary, Mary! get up; there is a great deal to do.”  This voice confused her greatly.  Was it possible that all that was past had been mere fancy, that she had but dreamed those long, long years,—­maturity and motherhood, and trouble and triumph, and old age at the end of all?  It seemed to her possible that she might have dreamed the rest,—­for she had been a girl much given to visions,—­but she said to herself that she never could have dreamed old age.  And then with a smile she mused, and thought that it must be the voice that was a dream; for how could she get up without Jervis, who had never appeared yet to draw the curtains or make the fire?  Jervis perhaps had sat up late.  She remembered now to have seen her that time in the middle of the night by her bedside; so that it was natural enough, poor thing, that she should be late.  Get up! who was it that was calling to her so?  She had not been so called to, she who had always been a great lady, since she was a girl by her mother’s side.  “Mary, Mary!” It was a very curious dream.  And what was more curious still was, that by-and-by she could not keep still any longer, but got up without thinking any more of Jervis, and going out of her room came all at once into the midst of a company of people, all very busy; whom she was much surprised to find, at first, but whom she soon accustomed herself to, finding the greatest interest in their proceedings, and curious to know what they were doing.  They, for their part, did not seem at all surprised by her appearance, nor did any one stop to explain, as would have been natural; but she took this with great composure, somewhat astonished, perhaps, being used, wherever she went, to a great many observances and much respect, but soon, very soon, becoming used to it.  Then some one repeated what she had heard before.  “It is time you got up,—­for there is a great deal to do.”

“To do,” she said, “for me?” and then she looked round upon them with that charming smile which had subjugated so many.  “I am afraid,” she said, “you will find me of very little use.  I am too old now, if ever I could have done much, for work.”

“Oh no, you are not old,—­you will do very well,” some one said.

“Not old!”—­Lady Mary felt a little offended in spite of herself.  “Perhaps I like flattery as well as my neighbors,” she said with dignity, “but then it must be reasonable.  To say I am anything but a very old woman—­”