ignal.

It concerned the house and the master of it. His groom drove rapidly
down, while he hurried on the homeward way, as a man will do, with the
dread upon him that his wife's last breath may have been yielded before
he can enfold her.

Carinthia walked to be overtaken, not daring to fever her blood at a
swifter pace; 'lamed with an infant,' the thought recurred.

'She is very ill, she has fainted, she lies insensible,' Madge heard from
her of Mrs. Wythan. 'We were speaking of her when the groom appeared. It
has happened twice. They fear the third. He fears it, though he laughs at
a superstition. Now step, I know you like walking, Mr. Woodseer. Once I
left you behind.'

'I have the whole scene of the angel and the cripple,' Gower replied.

'O that day!'

They 'were soon speculating on the unimpressionable house in its clump of
wood midway below, which had no response for anxieties.

A maid-servant at the garden gate, by Mr. Wythan's orders, informed
Carinthia that her mistress had opened her eyes: There was a hope of
weathering the ominous third time. But the hope was a bird of short
flight from bush to bush until the doctor should speak to confirm it.
Even the child was under the shadow of the house. Carinthia had him in
her arms, trusting to life as she hugged him, and seeing innumerable
darts out of all regions assailing her treasure.

'She wishes to have you,' Mr. Wythan came and said to her. 'Almost her
first word. The heart is quickening. She will live for me if she can.'

He whispered it. His features shot the sparkle.

Rebecca Wythan had strength to press Carinthia's hand faintly. She made
herself heard: 'No pain.' Her husband sat upright, quite still, attentive
for any sign. His look of quiet pleasure ready to show, sprightliness
dwelt on her. She returned the look, unable to give it greeting. Past the
sense of humour, she wanted to say: 'See the poor simple fellow who will
think it a wife that he has!' She did but look.

Carinthia spoke his name, 'Mr. Wythan,' by chance, and Rebecca breathed
heavily until she formed the words: 'Owain to me.'

'To me,' Owain added.

The three formed a chain of clasped hands.

It was in the mind of the sick lady to disburden herself of more than her
weakness could utter, so far was she above earthly links. The desire in
her was to be quit of the flesh, bearing a picture of her husband as
having the dues of his merits.

Her recovered strength next day brought