who was in the secret of past days, knew, and respected her silence.  Even Mr. Douglas, who had thought to improve his distant cousinship, read there the vanity of all his hopes, and bestowed a double share of attention upon Miss Graves, charming in her genuine sorrow over her considerate employer.  Nobody cared to go to church, but the good Squire pointed out that few could be of any service at home, and that, if ever they had need of the comforts of religion, it was at such a time.  So Mr. Perrowne and Mr. Errol each received a quota of grief-stricken worshippers from Bridesdale, and, at the close of their respective services, mingled heartfelt expressions of sorrow with theirs.  The clergymen declined to intrude upon the saddened household, until they could be of some service, so the worshippers returned as they went.

Mr. Bangs and the doctor were the lights of the dinner table, their professional acquaintance with all sorts of trouble hindering them from being overcome by anything of the kind.  The former had sent for Mr. Rigby, and had placed the two prisoners in his charge, thus releasing Timotheus and Ben Toner.  The latter reported that his patient was restored to animation, but this restoration was accompanied with fear and delirium, the effects of which on a rapidly enfeebled body he greatly dreaded.  If he could keep down the cerebral excitement, all might be well, and for this he depended much on the presence with the sufferer of his friend, Mr. Wilkinson.  Just as he said this, the dominie’s voice was heard calling for assistance, and the doctor and the Squire sprang upstairs.  The patient had broken his bandages, and was sitting up fighting with his attendant, whom in his delirium he identified with Rawdon.  It was almost ludicrous to hear him cry, as he clutched at Wilkinson’s throat:  “Ah, Grinstuns, you double-dyed villain, I’ve got you now.  No more free circus for you, Grinstuns!” With difficulty the three men got him down, and bandaged him again; but his struggles were so violent that they feared for his life.  He recognized none of them.  Little Marjorie heard his loud shouts, and ran to save her friend from his murderers, as she thought them to be.  The Squire would have repelled her intrusion angrily, but Doctor Halbert said:  “Come, little girl, and tell your poor friend he must be quiet, if he wants to live for you and the rest of us.”  It is hard to say what prompted her, but she took out a little tear-soaked handkerchief and laid it on Coristine’s shoulder, calling, “Eugene, you silly boy”.  The silly boy closed his staring eyes, and then opened them again upon the child.  “Is that you, pet Marjorie?” he asked feebly; and she sobbed out:  “Yes, Eugene dear, it’s me; I’ve come to help you to get well.”

“Thank you, Marjorie; have I been sick long?”

“No, just a little while; but the doctor says you must be very very still, and do just what you’re told.  Will you, Eugene?”

“Yes; where’s your cousin, Marjorie?”