“Now tell me,” she said; “he is dying, is not he?”

“Yes.  Best thing that can happen to him, poor wretch.”

“You don’t think he will live to be tried?”

He shook his head.

“More than doubtful.”

“But it is only a fortnight, and there seems to be no acute disease.”

“He would have a better chance of living if there were.  He is completely worn out—­dying of exhaustion.  It is a question if he lasts another week.”

“Tell me, please, exactly what can be done for him.”

“Very little indeed.  And Mrs. Elton is a good nurse.”

The same look of inquiry as before was in the doctor’s face while he gave this answer, and Mrs. Costello felt that some explanation was necessary.

“I have no doubt she is.  But I knew him—­knew something of him—­many years ago,” she said; “and Mr. Strafford, the clergyman at Moose Island, you know, confided him to my care.”

She spoke hurriedly, but without faltering, and the doctor was satisfied.  He told her briefly all that could be done for his patient, and then went away, with a last warning not to stay too long.

This short conversation had been carried on rapidly and in very low tones.  Mrs. Elton had left the room, and Christian seemed quite unconscious of the presence of the speakers.  When the doctor was gone, his wife again came to his bedside, and seeing that he had not yet sunk back quite into his former lethargic state, she laid her hand gently on his without speaking.

He did not move, but merely raised his languid eyes to her face.  Something there, however, seemed to fix them, and he lay looking at her with a steady intent gaze, as if trying to recognise her.

“Christian,” she said very softly, with a trembling voice, “do you remember me?”

“I remember,” he answered in a half whisper, “not you, but something like you.”

“I am changed since then,” she went on; “we are both changed, but we shall be together again now.”

He was still watching her, and there seemed to be a clearer consciousness in his gaze.

“Are you Mary?” he asked after a moment.

“I am Mary, your wife,” she answered.

“There was something else,” he went on, slowly groping as it were for broken memories of the past.  “There was another.”

“Our child?” she asked, “Do you remember her?”

“Yes; is she here?”

“No.  Would you like to see her?”

“No matter.  I lost you.  Where have you been?”

“Near here.  Forget that; now I shall not leave you again for long.”

“I am tired; I think I shall sleep.”

And the light began to fade out of his eyes, and the same kind of dull insensibility, not sleep, crept over him again.

She left him at last in much the same state as she found him; and after a long talk with Mrs. Elton, who was at first a little inclined to be jealous of interference, but came round completely after a while, she left the jail and started for home.