Happily for both of us, it was not until Charley was safe in bed again and placidly asleep that I began to think the contagion of her illness was upon me.  I had been able easily to hide what I felt at tea-time, but I was past that already now, and I knew that I was rapidly following in Charley’s steps.

I was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, and to return my darling’s cheerful blessing from the garden, and to talk with her as long as usual.  But I was not free from an impression that I had been walking about the two rooms in the night, a little beside myself, though knowing where I was; and I felt confused at times—­with a curious sense of fullness, as if I were becoming too large altogether.

In the evening I was so much worse that I resolved to prepare Charley, with which view I said, “You’re getting quite strong, Charley, are you not?”

“Oh, quite!” said Charley.

“Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Charley?”

“Quite strong enough for that, miss!” cried Charley.  But Charley’s face fell in the height of her delight, for she saw the secret in my face; and she came out of the great chair, and fell upon my bosom, and said “Oh, miss, it’s my doing!  It’s my doing!” and a great deal more out of the fullness of her grateful heart.

“Now, Charley,” said I after letting her go on for a little while, “if I am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking, is in you.  And unless you are as quiet and composed for me as you always were for yourself, you can never fulfil it, Charley.”

“If you’ll let me cry a little longer, miss,” said Charley.  “Oh, my dear, my dear!  If you’ll only let me cry a little longer.  Oh, my dear!”—­how affectionately and devotedly she poured this out as she clung to my neck, I never can remember without tears—­“I’ll be good.”

So I let Charley cry a little longer, and it did us both good.

“Trust in me now, if you please, miss,” said Charley quietly.  “I am listening to everything you say.”

“It’s very little at present, Charley.  I shall tell your doctor to-night that I don’t think I am well and that you are going to nurse me.”

For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart.  “And in the morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the garden, if I should not be quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do you go, Charley, and say I am asleep—­that I have rather tired myself, and am asleep.  At all times keep the room as I have kept it, Charley, and let no one come.”

Charley promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy.  I saw the doctor that night and asked the favour of him that I wished to ask relative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet.  I have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting into day, and of day melting into night again; but I was just able on the first morning to get to the window and speak to my darling.