“How is Mr. Vincent?  Not dangerously ill, I hope!”

“Tomorrow will decide that.  It is now ten minutes past ten; how many potions have you given?”

“Two,” answered she firmly.

“Thank you, May.  I will relieve you now.  Good-night.”

“But you are worn out, and I am not.  Let me sit up.  I will wake you if any change occurs.”

“Thank you, I prefer watching tonight.  Take that candle, and leave it on the table in the hall.  I need nothing but moonlight.  Leave the door open.”  As the flickering light vanished, he threw himself into the chair beside the bed.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was in the gray light of dawning day that Beulah awoke to consciousness.  For some moments after unclosing her eyes they wandered inquiringly about the room, and finally rested on the tall form of the watcher, as he stood at the open window.  Gradually memory gathered up its scattered links, and all the incidents of that hour of anguish rushed vividly before her.  The little table, with its marble sleeper; then a dim recollection of having been carried to a friendly shelter.  Was it only yesterday evening, and had she slept?  The utter prostration which prevented her raising her head, and the emaciated appearance of her hands, told her “no.”  Too feeble even to think, she moaned audibly.  Dr. Hartwell turned and looked at her.  The room was still in shadow, though the eastern sky was flushed, and he stepped to the bedside.  The fever had died out, the cheeks were very pale, and the unnaturally large, sunken eyes lusterless.  She looked at him steadily, yet with perfect indifference.  He leaned over, and said eagerly: 

“Beulah, do you know me?”

“Yes; I know you.”

“How do you feel this morning?”

“I am very weak, and my head seems confused.  How long have I been here?”

“No matter, child, if you are better.”  He took out his watch, and, after counting her pulse, prepared some medicine, and gave her a potion.  Her features twitched, and she asked tremblingly, as if afraid of her own question: 

“Have they buried her?”

“Yes; a week ago.”

She closed her eyes with a groan, and her face became convulsed; then she lay quite still, with a wrinkled brow.  Dr. Hartwell sat down by her, and, taking one of her wasted little hands in his, said gently: 

“Beulah, you have been very ill.  I scarcely thought you would recover; and now, though much better, you must not agitate yourself, for you are far too weak to bear it.”

“Why didn’t you let me die?  Oh, it would have been a mercy!” She put her hand over her eyes, and a low cry wailed through the room.

“Because I wanted you to get well, and live here, and be my little friend, my child.  Now, Beulah, I have saved you, and you belong to me.  When you are stronger we will talk about all you want to know; but to-day you must keep quiet, and not think of what distresses you.  Will you try?”