head of the bed, holding the night-lamp high, and shading it with his hand, that it might not disturb the sick person, who lay with his face towards them, in feeble exhaustion, but with every sign that the violence of the fever had left him.  It so happened that the rays of the lamp fell bright and full upon Ruth’s countenance, as she stood with her crimson lips parted with the hurrying breath, and the fever-flush brilliant on her cheeks.  Her eyes were wide open, and their pupils distended.  She looked on the invalid in silence, and hardly understood why Mr. Davis had summoned her there.

“Don’t you see the change?  He is better!—­the crisis is past!”

But she did not speak her looks were riveted on his softly-unclosing eyes, which met hers as they opened languidly.  She could not stir or speak.  She was held fast by that gaze of his, in which a faint recognition dawned, and grew to strength.

He murmured some words.  They strained their sense to hear.  He repeated them even lower than before; but this time they caught what he was saying.

“Where are the water-lilies?  Where are the lilies in her hair?”

Mr. Davis drew Ruth away.

“He is still rambling,” said he.  “But the fever has left him.”

The grey dawn was now filling the room with its cold light; was it that made Ruth’s cheek so deadly pale?  Could that call out the wild entreaty of her look, as if imploring help against some cruel foe that held her fast, and was wrestling with her Spirit of Life?  She held Mr. Davis’s arm.  If she had let it go, she would have fallen.

“Take me home,” she said, and fainted dead away.

Mr. Davis carried her out of the chamber, and sent the groom to keep watch by his master.  He ordered a fly to convey her to Mr. Benson’s, and lifted her in when it came, for she was still half unconscious.  It was he who carried her upstairs to her room, where Miss Benson and Sally undressed and laid her in her bed.

He awaited their proceedings in Mr. Benson’s study.  When Mr. Benson came in, Mr. Davis said—­

“Don’t blame me.  Don’t add to my self-reproach.  I have killed her.  I was a cruel fool to let her go.  Don’t speak to me.”

“It may not be so bad,” said Mr. Benson, himself needing comfort in that shock.

“She may recover.  She surely will recover.  I believe she will.”

“No, no! she won’t.  But by——­she shall, if I can save her.”  Mr. Davis looked defiantly at Mr. Benson, as if he were Fate.  “I tell you she shall recover, or else I am a murderer.  What business had I to take her to nurse him——­”

He was cut short by Sally’s entrance and announcement, that Ruth was now prepared to see him.

From that time forward Mr. Davis devoted all his leisure, his skill, his energy, to save her.  He called on the rival surgeon, to beg him to undertake the management of Mr. Donne’s recovery, saying, with his usual self-mockery, “I could not answer it to Mr. Cranworth if I had brought his opponent round, you know, when I had had such a fine opportunity in my power.  Now, with your patients, and general Radical interest, it will be rather a feather in your cap; for he may want a good deal of care yet, though he is getting on famously—­so rapidly, in fact, that it’s a strong temptation to me to throw him back—­a relapse, you know.”