“Fletcher! go to Mrs. Jackson’s and inquire if Mr. Dunster is come home yet.  I want to speak to him.”

“To him!” lying dead where he had been laid; killed by the man who now asked for his presence.  Ellinor shut her eyes, and lay back in despair.  She wished she might die, and be out of this horrible tangle of events.

Two minutes after, she was conscious of her father and Miss Monro stealing softly out of the room.  They thought that she slept.

She sprang off the sofa and knelt down.

“Oh, God,” she prayed, “Thou knowest!  Help me!  There is none other help but Thee!”

I suppose she fainted.  For, an hour or more afterwards Miss Monro, coming in, found her lying insensible by the side of the sofa.

She was carried to bed.  She was not delirious, she was only in a stupor, which they feared might end in delirium.  To obviate this, her father sent far and wide for skilful physicians, who tended her, almost at the rate of a guinea the minute.

People said how hard it was upon Mr. Wilkins, that scarcely had that wretch Dunster gone off, with no one knows how much out of the trusts of the firm, before his only child fell ill.  And, to tell the truth, he himself looked burnt and scared with affliction.  He had a startled look, they said, as if he never could tell, after such experience, from which side the awful proofs of the uncertainty of earth would appear, the terrible phantoms of unforeseen dread.  Both rich and poor, town and country, sympathised with him.  The rich cared not to press their claims, or their business, at such a time; and only wondered, in their superficial talk after dinner, how such a good fellow as Wilkins could ever have been deceived by a man like Dunster.  Even Sir Frank Holster and his lady forgot their old quarrel, and came to inquire after Ellinor, and sent her hothouse fruit by the bushel.

Mr. Corbet behaved as an anxious lover should do.  He wrote daily to Miss Monro to beg for the most minute bulletins; he procured everything in town that any doctor even fancied might be of service, he came down as soon as there was the slightest hint of permission that Ellinor might see him.  He overpowered her with tender words and caresses, till at last she shrank away from them, as from something too bewildering, and past all right comprehension.

But one night before this, when all windows and doors stood open to admit the least breath that stirred the sultry July air, a servant on velvet tiptoe had stolen up to Ellinor’s open door, and had beckoned out of the chamber of the sleeper the ever watchful nurse, Miss Monro.

“A gentleman wants you,” were all the words the housemaid dared to say so close to the bedroom.  And softly, softly Miss Monro stepped down the stairs, into the drawing-room; and there she saw Mr. Livingstone.  But she did not know him; she had never seen him before.

“I have travelled all day.  I heard she was ill—­was dying.  May I just have one more look at her?  I will not speak; I will hardly breathe.  Only let me see her once again!”