He heard his aunt’s voice and footfall, and felt, as he always did, a vague pleasure in her advent.  Whatever of life came into his chamber of suffering came through her.  She brought him daily such intelligences as she thought conducive to his recovery; and it must be acknowledged that it was not always her “humour to be truthful.”  For Hyde had so craved news of Katherine, that she believed he would die wanting it; and she had therefore fallen, without one conscientious scruple, into the reporter’s temptation,—­inventing the things which ought to have taken place, and did not.  “For, in faith, Nigel,” she said to her husband, in excuse, “those who have nothing to tell must tell lies.”

[Illustration:  Katherine was close to his side]

Her reports had been ingenious and diversified.  “She had seen Katherine at one of the windows,—­the very picture of distraction.”  “She had been told that Katherine was breaking her heart about him;” also, “that Elder Semple and Councillor Van Heemskirk had quarrelled because Katharine had refused to see Neil, and the elder blamed Van Heemskirk for not compelling her obedience.”  Whenever Hyde had been unusually depressed or unusually nervous, Mrs. Gordon had always had some such comforting fiction ready.  Now, here was the real Katherine.  Her very presence, her smiles, her tears, her words, would be a consolation so far beyond all hope, that the girl by her side seemed a kind of miracle to her.

She was far more than a miracle to Hyde.  As the door opened, he slowly turned his head.  When he saw who was really there, he uttered a low cry of joy,—­a cry pitiful in its shrill weakness.  In a moment Katherine was close to his side.  This was no time for coyness, and she was too tender and true a woman to feel or to affect it.  She kissed his hands and face, and whispered on his lips the sweetest words of love and fidelity.  Hyde was in a rapture.  His joyful soul made his pale face luminous.  He lay still, speechless, motionless, watching and listening to her.

Mrs. Gordon had removed Katherine’s veil and cloak, and considerately withdrawn to a mirror at the extremity of the room, where she appeared to be altogether occupied with her own ringlets.  But, indeed, it was with Katherine and Hyde one of those supreme hours when love conquers every other feeling.  Before the whole world they would have avowed their affection, their pity, and their truth.

Hyde could speak little, but there was no need of speech.  Had he not nearly died for her?  Was not his very helplessness a plea beyond the power of words?  She had only to look at the white shadow of humanity holding her hand, and remember the gay, gallant, handsome soldier who had wooed her under the water-beeches, to feel that all the love of her life was too little to repay his devotion.  And so quickly, so quickly, went the happy moments!  Ere Katherine had half said, “I love thee,” Mrs. Gordon reminded her that it was near the noon; “and I have an excellent plan,” she continued; “you can leave my veil and cloak in the coach, and I will leave you at the first convenient place near your home.  At the turn of the road, one sees nobody but your excellent father or brother, or perhaps Justice Van Gaasbeek, all of whom we may avoid, if you will but consider the time.”