It was broad day when Katy awoke, so weak as to be unable to turn her head upon the pillow, but in her eyes the light of reason was shining, and she glanced wonderingly, first at Helen, at her mother, and then at Wilford, as if trying to comprehend what had happened.

“Have I been sick?” she asked in a whisper, and Wilford, bending over her, replied:  “Yes, darling, very sick for nearly two whole weeks—­ever since I left home that morning, you know.”

“Yes,” and Katy shivered a little.  “Yes, I know.  But where is Morris?  He was here the last I can remember.”

Wilford’s face grew dark at once, and stepping back as Morris came in, he said:  “She asks for you.”  Then with a rising feeling of resentment he watched them, while Morris spoke to Katy, telling her she was better, but must keep very quiet, and not allow herself in any way to be excited.

“Have I been crazy?  Have I talked much?” she asked, and when Morris replied in the affirmative there came a startled look into her eye, as she said:  “Of what or whom have I talked most?”

“Of Genevra,” was the answer, and Katy continued:  “Did I mention no one else?”

Morris guessed of whom she was thinking, and answered, indifferently:  “You spoke of Miss Hazelton in connection with baby, but that was all.”

Katy was satisfied, and closing her eyes fell away to sleep again, while Morris made his preparations for leaving.  It hardly seemed right for him to go just then, but the only one who could have kept him maintained a frigid silence with regard to a longer stay, and so the first train which left New York for Springfield carried Dr. Grant, and Katy was without a physician.

Wilford had hoped that Mrs. Lennox, too, would see the propriety of accompanying Morris; but she would not leave Katy, and Wilford was fain to submit to what he could not help.  No explanation whatever had he given to Mrs. Lennox or Helen with regard to Genevra.  He was too proud for that, but his mother had deemed it wise to smooth the matter over as much as possible, enjoining upon them both the necessity of secrecy.

“When I tell you that neither my husband or daughters know it, you will understand that I am greatly in earnest in wishing it kept,” she said.  “It was a most unfortunate affair, and though the divorce is, of course, to be lamented, it is better that she died.  We never could have received her as our equal.”

“Was anything the matter, except that she was poor?” Mrs. Lennox asked, with as much dignity as was in her nature to assume.

“Well, no.  She had a good education, I believe, and was very pretty; but it makes trouble always where there is a great inequality between a husband’s family and that of his wife.”