“Alice Hartley,” says I to myself, “someone left that room just now and ran down the passage ahead of you.  The idea isn’t pleasant, but you may as well face it.  Your mistress has rung for you, and to answer her bell you’ve got to go the way that other woman has gone.”

Well—­I did it.  I never walked faster in my life, yet I thought I should never get to the end of the passage or reach Mrs. Brympton’s room.  On the way I heard nothing and saw nothing:  all was dark and quiet as the grave.  When I reached my mistress’s door the silence was so deep that I began to think I must be dreaming, and was half-minded to turn back.  Then a panic seized me, and I knocked.

There was no answer, and I knocked again, loudly.  To my astonishment the door was opened by Mr. Brympton.  He started back when he saw me, and in the light of my candle his face looked red and savage.

_ “You!"_ he said, in a queer voice. "How many of you are there, in God’s name?"

At that I felt the ground give under me; but I said to myself that he had been drinking, and answered as steadily as I could:  “May I go in, sir?  Mrs. Brympton has rung for me.”

“You may all go in, for what I care,” says he, and, pushing by me, walked down the hall to his own bedroom.  I looked after him as he went, and to my surprise I saw that he walked as straight as a sober man.

I found my mistress lying very weak and still, but she forced a smile when she saw me, and signed to me to pour out some drops for her.  After that she lay without speaking, her breath coming quick, and her eyes closed.  Suddenly she groped out with her hand, and “_ Emma_,” says she, faintly.

“It’s Hartley, madam,” I said.  “Do you want anything?”

She opened her eyes wide and gave me a startled look.

“I was dreaming,” she said.  “You may go, now, Hartley, and thank you kindly.  I’m quite well again, you see.”  And she turned her face away from me.

III

THERE was no more sleep for me that night, and I was thankful when daylight came.

Soon afterward, Agnes called me to Mrs. Brympton.  I was afraid she was ill again, for she seldom sent for me before nine, but I found her sitting up in bed, pale and drawn-looking, but quite herself.

“Hartley,” says she quickly, “will you put on your things at once and go down to the village for me?  I want this prescription made up—­” here she hesitated a minute and blushed—­“and I should like you to be back again before Mr. Brympton is up.”

“Certainly, madam,” I said.

“And—­stay a moment—­” she called me back as if an idea had just struck her—­“while you’re waiting for the mixture, you’ll have time to go on to Mr. Ranford’s with this note.”