“Can you turn your head?  If you can, put it down, and I’ll whisper something in your very own ear.  Now listen! don’t say a word till I come back.  I’m going to bring cousin Marjorie to you.”  Then she slipped away out of the room.

“Doctor,” said the Squire in a shaky voice, “we had aa better gang awa oot o’ the room till the meetin’s owre.”  So the three men withdrew to the hall as the two Marjories entered.

“Eugene,” whispered little Marjorie, “have you been good while I was away, and not spoken?”

“Not a word, Marjorie,” breathed rather than spoke the enfeebled lawyer.

“I have brought cousin Marjorie to you.  You must be very good, and do all she says.  Give me your hand.”  She took the limp hand, with the ring on the little finger, and placed it in her cousin’s; then, with a touching little sigh, departed, leaving the two alone.  Their hands lay clasped in one another, but they could not speak.  His eyes were upon her, all the fierce light of delirium out of them, in spite of the fever that was burning in every limb, resting upon her face in a silly wistful way, as if he feared the vision was deceptive, or his prize might vanish at any moment.  At last she asked:  “Do you know me, Mr. Coristine?” and he murmured:  “How could I help knowing you?” But, in a minute, he commanded himself, and said:  “It is very kind of you to leave your friends and come to a stupid sick man.  It is too much trouble, it is not right, please go away.”

“Look me straight in the face, Eugene,” said Miss Carmichael, with an effort.  “Now, tell me, yes or no, nothing more, mind!  Am I to go away?” As she asked the question, her face bent towards that of the sufferer, over which there passed a feeble flush, poor insufficient index of the great joy within, and then, as they met, his half-breathed answer was “No.”  She commanded silence, shook up his pillows, bathed his forehead, and in many ways displayed the stolen ring.  He saw it, and, for the first time, perceived the change on his own hand.  Then, she ordered him to go to sleep, as if he were a child, smoothing his hair and chanting in a low tone a baby’s lullaby, until tired nature, with a heart at peace, became unconscious of the outer world and slumbered sweetly.  On tiptoe, she stole to the door, and found many waiting in the hall for news.  Proudly, she called the doctor in and showed him his patient, in his right mind and resting.  “Thank God!” said the good man, “he is saved.  We must come and relieve you now, Miss Carmichael.”  But she answered:  “No, my place is here.  If I want assistance I will call my uncle or Mr. Wilkinson.”  Doctor Halbert told the joyful news to the Squire and the assembled company.  The clergymen would not arrive till tea time, so Mr. Carruthers, as the priest of the family, gathered the household together, and, in simple language but full of heart, thanked God for the young life preserved.  The doctor went away home, but without Miss Fanny, and, as he drove off, remarked to the Squire, significantly:  “There is no medicine in the world like love,” a sentiment with which the Squire thoroughly agreed.