Kneeling beside her in the darkness, he felt that her face and hands were very cold.  He did not know what to do.  If she had been any other person, he would have had his senses about him, but, being who she was, they had scattered themselves, and he felt dazed.  The fire was not quite out, and he thought of smashing up a chair to make it burn, but searching in the coal-scuttle at the side, of the fireplace, he found both sticks and coals, and heaped them on:  then he lighted the lamp that was still standing on the table.  All this was the work of a minute or two.  A fainting-fit was quite beyond the range of his experience, but he had some vague idea that in cases of the kind water should be dashed in the face or a smelling-bottle held to the nostrils or brandy poured down the throat; but none of these things were at hand, and as he looked at Bessie, hesitating what to do, he saw the color steal back to her face, and she opened her eyes and suddenly shut them.  When she opened them again she took his presence as a matter of course, and said, “I sometimes walk in my sleep, I know, but I am not in the habit of fainting;” and she smiled, looking much more like the lily than the rose.

“I hope not,” he said.

“It was the fright I got when I woke and saw where I was.  I shouldn’t have been frightened, for I knew the place as well as I know this room, and could have found my way back in the dark.”

“What can I get for you?—­you must have something.”  It is an awkward thing when a nurse has to seek directions from a patient.

“Nothing,” she said:  “I can take nothing, and I am quite well.  I can’t think how I was so foolish as to scream, and I am sorry for disturbing you.”

“You did not disturb me:  if I had been asleep I should never have heard you.”

“I wish you had been asleep.”

“You might have fallen through the rafters and been hurt or perished of cold.”

“I shouldn’t have fallen through the rafters:  I should have come to myself and have walked back quite well alone; but I am not the less obliged to you.”

“I should say not,” he said with a curl of sarcasm.  “Then is there nothing I can do for you?”

“Nothing, unless, indeed, you could get hot water for me to wash my feet in.  Sleeping as I was, I had the good sense to put on a thick shawl, but I made my excursion barefoot:  they say walking barefoot improves one’s carriage.”

“Bessie, I never know what to make of you.”

“If you know what to make of yourself it’s a great matter:  sometimes people don’t know that,” she said, rather wearily.

“I had better make myself scarce at present, probably?” he said.

“I think so.”

“Then good-night.  You won’t faint again?”

“No:  good-night.”

He left the room and shut the door gently, but when a few paces away some impulse moved him to go back:  she might faint again, and he would ask if he should send one of the servants to her.