Hester Dethridge accepted her dismissal, as she accepted every thing else.  She bowed her head in sign that she understood—­looked for the last time at Anne—­dropped a stiff courtesy to her young mistress—­and left the room.

An hour later the butler had paid her, and she had left the house.

Blanche breathed more freely when she found herself alone.  She could feel the relief now of seeing Anne revive.

“Can you hear me, darling?” she whispered.  “Can you let me leave you for a moment?”

Anne’s eyes slowly opened and looked round her—­in that torment and terror of reviving life which marks the awful protest of humanity against its recall to existence when mortal mercy has dared to wake it in the arms of Death.

Blanche rested Anne’s head against the nearest chair, and ran to the table upon which she had placed the wine on entering the room.

After swallowing the first few drops Anne begun to feel the effect of the stimulant.  Blanche persisted in making her empty the glass, and refrained from asking or answering questions until her recovery under the influence of the wine was complete.

“You have overexerted yourself this morning,” she said, as soon as it seemed safe to speak.  “Nobody has seen you, darling—­nothing has happened.  Do you feel like yourself again?”

Anne made an attempt to rise and leave the library; Blanche placed her gently in the chair, and went on: 

“There is not the least need to stir.  We have another quarter of an hour to ourselves before any body is at all likely to disturb us.  I have something to say, Anne—­a little proposal to make.  Will you listen to me?”

Anne took Blanche’s hand, and p ressed it gratefully to her lips.  She made no other reply.  Blanche proceeded: 

“I won’t ask any questions, my dear—­I won’t attempt to keep you here against your will—­I won’t even remind you of my letter yesterday.  But I can’t let you go, Anne, without having my mind made easy about you in some way.  You will relieve all my anxiety, if you will do one thing—­one easy thing for my sake.”

“What is it, Blanche?”

She put that question with her mind far away from the subject before her.  Blanche was too eager in pursuit of her object to notice the absent tone, the purely mechanical manner, in which Anne had spoken to her.

“I want you to consult my uncle,” she answered.  “Sir Patrick is interested in you; Sir Patrick proposed to me this very day to go and see you at the inn.  He is the wisest, the kindest, the dearest old man living—­and you can trust him as you could trust nobody else.  Will you take my uncle into your confidence, and be guided by his advice?”

With her mind still far away from the subject, Anne looked out absently at the lawn, and made no answer.

“Come!” said Blanche.  “One word isn’t much to say.  Is it Yes or No?”

Still looking out on the lawn—­still thinking of something else—­Anne yielded, and said “Yes.”