she's
worse!"

There was a painful silence, and then the vicar sighed heavily as he
said--

"Her state is very dangerous indeed."

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

A BREACH OF PROMISE OF MARRIAGE.

Hazel seemed to have borne the moving well, and the doctor smiled his
satisfaction at seeing his patient in such light and cheerful quarters;
but the days had gone on without change. Night and day there had been
the same weary, restless wandering of the fevered brain--the same
constant talking of the troubles of the past; and little Miss Burge
sobbed aloud sometimes as she listened to some of the revelations of
Hazel's breast.

"Poor dear!" she said, and she strove to give the sufferer the rest and
ease that would not come, as hour by hour she watched the terrible
inroads the fever made in her care-worn face.

"She's getting that thin, doctor, it's quite pitiful," she said; but
only to receive the same answer.

"Wait till the fever has exhausted itself, my dear madam, and we will
soon build up fresh tissue, and you shall see her gain strength every
hour."

But the fever did not exhaust itself, and in spite of every care Hazel's
state grew critical indeed.

"If I might only see her, dear," said Mr William Forth Burge; "if I
might only speak to her once. I wouldn't want to come in."

"No, Bill dear," said the little woman firmly; "not yet. The doctor
says it is best not, and you must wait."

"Does--does she ever in her wanderings--a--a--does she ever speak about
me, Betsey?"

"Yes; sometimes she says you have been very kind."

"She has said that?"

"Yes, dear; but she is not herself, Bill dear. She's quite off her
head. I wouldn't build up any hopes upon that."

"No, I won't," he said hastily. "I don't expect anything--I don't want
anything, only to see her well again. But it does me good to think she
can think of me ever so little while she is ill."

"You see, dear, it's her wandering," said his sister; "that's all."

"But tell me, Betsey, tell me again, do you think she will get over it?"
he said imploringly.

She looked at him with the tears trickling down her face, but she did
not answer.

"He comes, you see, and smiles and rubs his hands, and says, `She's no
worse--she's no worse, Mr William Forth Burge, sir;' but I can't trust
him, Betsey, like I can you. There," he cried, "see: I'm quite calm,
and I'll bear it like a man. Tell me, do you think she'll get over it?"

"Bill dear, I can't tell