Poor fellow! in a sort of stupor, there he lay doubled up like a ball on the bare floor in a hot, close corner.

Agnes was enraged, but there was no time to waste in quarrelling or scolding.

“Bring that man this moment into the best room you have; put him into bed, and fetch the following things.  I will stay and nurse him.”

There was an imperiousness and determination about her tones that caused Agnes to be obeyed instantly, and in a few minutes Harkness was laid upon the bed.  There was no prudish finicking about Agnes.  Taking pen-knife from her pocket, she ripped the boots off George’s feet, pulled off his socks, and in less than three minutes more was laving his feet and legs to the knees in hot mustard water.

Fully half an hour did she continue her exertions with the sick man before he recovered his senses sufficiently to recognize her.  As he did so, he started up, and gazed a long time at her—­like one in a dream.

“George, do you know me?  I am Agnes,” said she, in a very soft, but trembling voice.

He reached his hands along the bed-clothes to take hers, apparently to ascertain if she and he were still in the flesh, or were spirits of the other world.  There was magic in the warm eager pressure of her hand, for instantly Harkness appeared to gain his full senses.

“Agnes!  Agnes! have you found me?  Thank God for this.  I am so glad to see you before I die.  It takes the thorn out of my pillow, and puts felicity into my heart to see you again.  I know by this you have forgiven me.”

“Hush, George, there’s nothing to forgive.  Do not talk, you are too sick.  I have come to nurse you.  And, with God’s help, you shall soon be well again.  With God’s help—­there, dear, you are all the world to me!”

There was an intensity of love in the whispered words that thrilled George’s heart.  Agnes’s lips touched his ear as the last accents were breathed, so low that he alone could hear them.

“Thank you, O, my darling, my Angel.  Twenty fevers shall not kill me now,” said George, but in a very weak voice.

Brave heart, George!  Loving heart, Agnes!  But fate willed otherwise.  You were to be united, but not then, not then; not until you both had crossed the mysterious river which has but one tide, and that ever flowing in at Eternity’s gates, but never returning.

Hour after hour Agnes battled with the demon fever which was gnawing at the vitals of her beloved George.  At intervals her care seemed to get the better of the disorder, and to cause it to loosen its grip.  But, alas! after twenty-four hours of unceasing toil and anxiety, poor devoted Agnes was forced to endure the mental agony of seeing Harkness die.  The last thing he did was to smile up in her yearning face, and try to thank her for all she had done for him.  His voice was gone; but she knew what the slowly moving parched lips were saying for all that.