“Yes,” she said.  “We did not think so once.”

Miss Barrington smiled curiously.  “Are you very much astonished, Maud?  Still, there is nothing you can do for me, and we shall want you to-morrow.”

Realizing that there was no need for her, the girl went out, and when the door closed behind her the little white-haired lady bent down and gazed at her patient long and steadily.  Then she shook her head, and moved back to the seat she had risen from with perplexity in her face.

In the meanwhile, Maud Barrington sat by the open window in her room staring out into the night.  There was a whispering in the birch bluff, and the murmuring of leagues of grasses rose from the prairie that stretched away beyond it.  Still, though the wind fanned her throbbing forehead with a pleasant coolness, the nocturnal harmonies awoke no response in her.  Sleep was out of the question, for her brain was in a whirl of vague sensations, through which fear came uppermost every now and then.  Why anything which could befall this man who had come out of the obscurity, and was, he had told her, to go back into it again, should disturb her, Maud Barrington did not know; but there was no disguising the fact that she would feel his loss grievously, as others at Silverdale would do.  Then with a little tremor she wondered whether they must lose him, and rising stood tensely still, listening for any sound from the room where the sick man lay.

There was nothing but the sighing of the grasses outside and the murmur of the birches in the bluff, until the doleful howl of a coyote stole faintly out of the night.  Again the beast sent its cry out upon the wind, and the girl trembled as she listened.  The unearthly wail seemed charged with augury, and every nerve in her thrilled.

Then she sank down into her chair again, and sat still, hoping, listening, fearing, and wondering when the day would come, until at last her eyes grew heavy, and it was with a start she roused herself when a rattle of wheels came up out of the prairie in the early morning.  Then a spume-flecked team swept up to the house, a door swung open, there was a murmur of voices and a sound of feet that moved softly in the hall, after which, for what seemed an interminable time, silence reigned again.  At last, when the stealthy patter of feet recommenced, the girl slipped down the stairway and came upon Barrington.  Still, she could not ask the question that was trembling on her lips.

“Is there anything I can do?” she said.

Barrington shook his head.  “Not now!  The doctor is here, and does not seem very anxious about him.  The concussion is not apparently serious, and his other injuries will not trouble him much.”

Maud Barrington said nothing and turned away, sensible of a great relief, while her aunt entering her room an hour later found her lying fast asleep, but still dressed as she had last seen her.  Then, being a discerning woman, she went out softly with a curious smile, and did not at any time mention what she had seen.