“He is doing well now.  He is indebted to your energy and presence of mind for his life,” said the doctor.

“Oh, thank God! thank God, that he is better!  Do you think, sir, that he will recover?”

“He may, but it is doubtful.  I shall not be able to decide until he awakes.  Meanwhile, lady, lie down, and rest.  I will watch.”

“I could not sleep, sir; if I could, I would obey your directions; but I will rest my head on the sofa here, that I may be better able to attend to my duties to-day,” said May, in her earnest, matter-of-fact sort of way.  And the doctor, a young man who was rising rapidly in his profession—­a son of the people, who, through difficulties and rugged obstacles, and calumny and opposition, had emerged purified, and conscious of power from it all, and attained an honorable position professionally and socially, looked at that fragile form, and paid homage to the right-thinking and right-acting spirit it contained.  Her conduct had been heroic, noble, and evinced so much strength of character that even he, accustomed to phenomena, mental and physical, wondered.  He knew not whence she derived her strength; he had no idea of that divine charity which gives Titan power to the weak, and considers life itself of little worth when it does battle for the salvation of souls.  It was a mystery, the effects of which he had witnessed, but could trace no further than the comparative harmony of physiology.  Towards sunrise, Mr. Stillinghast turned uneasy on his pillow, and opened his eyes.  He looked around him with a puzzled, angry look; his bound-up arm—­his garments clotted with blood—­the confusion into which his room was thrown—­the strange man watching by his bedside—­May resting on the old sofa—­what meant it all?  He tried to call out, but could only whisper.

“What’s all this?  Have I been robbed?  Who are you?”

“I hope you feel a great deal better, Mr. Stillinghast.  You have been quite ill, sir,” said the doctor, soothingly.  “I am Dr. Burrell; allow me to feel your pulse.”

“For what?  I never was sick in my life.  I never had my pulse felt,” he said, doggedly.

“How does your head feel, sir?”

“My head! ah, my head feels shaky.  Call her here.”

May was beside him in a moment, holding his hand, and looking down into his white pinched features with commiseration.

“What’s all this, child?  Why are you here?”

“You have been very ill, dear uncle.  You know you were poorly last night.  I felt uneasy about you, and sat up to listen if you should call for any thing, until I heard you fall,” said May, in a low, clear, and distinct voice.

“Fall?”

“Then, sir, I ran up here, and found you on the floor, so ill—­so very ill,” said May, hesitating, always unwilling to speak of her own acts.

“What then?”

“I did all that I could, sir, until the doctor came,” she said.