Alarm now took the place of other emotions, and Mr. Delancy was endeavoring to lift the insensible body, when a quick, heavy tread in the portico caused him to look up, just as Hartley Emerson pushed open one of the French windows and entered the library.  He had a wild, anxious, half-frightened look.  Mr. Delancy let the body fall from his almost paralyzed arms and staggered to a chair, while Emerson sprung forward, catching up the fainting form of his young bride and bearing it to a sofa.

“How long has she been in this way?” asked the young man, in a tone of agitation.

“She fainted this moment,” replied Mr. Delancy.

“How long has she been here?”

“Not half an hour,” was answered; and as Mr. Delancy spoke he reached for the bell and jerked it two or three times violently.  The waiter, startled by the loud, prolonged sound, came hurriedly to the library.

“Send Margaret here, and then get a horse and ride over swiftly for Dr. Edmundson.  Tell him to come immediately.”

The waiter stood for a moment or two, looking in a half-terrified way upon the white, deathly face of Irene, and then fled from the apartment.  No grass grew beneath his horse’s feet as he held him to his utmost speed for the distance of two miles, which lay between Ivy Cliff and the doctor’s residence.

Margaret, startled by the hurried, half-incoherent summons of the waiter, came flying into the library.  The moment her eyes rested upon Irene, who still insensible upon the sofa, she screamed out, in terror—­

“Oh, she’s dead! she’s dead!” and stood still as if suddenly paralyzed; then, wringing her hands, she broke out in a wild, sobbing tone—­

“My poor, poor child!  Oh, she is dead, dead!”

“No, Margaret,” said Mr. Delancy, as calmly as he could speak, “she is not dead; it is only a fainting fit.  Bring some water, quickly.”

Water was brought and dashed into the face of Irene; but there came no sign of returning consciousness.

“Hadn’t you better take her up to her room, Mr. Emerson?” suggested Margaret.

“Yes,” he replied; and, lifting the insensible form of his bride in his arms, the unhappy man bore her to her chamber.  Then, sitting down beside the bed upon which he had placed her, he kissed her pale cheeks and, laying his face to hers, sobbed and moaned, in the abandonment of his grief, like a distressed child weeping in despair for some lost treasure.

“Come,” said Margaret, who was an old family domestic, drawing Hartley from the bedside, “leave her alone with me for a little while.”

And the husband and father retired from the room.  When they returned, at the call of Margaret, they found Irene in bed, her white, unconscious face scarcely relieved against the snowy pillow on which her head was resting.

“She is alive,” said Margaret, in a low and excited voice; “I can feel her heart beat.”