strained look upon it as Mrs. Heron put her arm round her and
led her tenderly to her room.

CHAPTER XX.

"LITTLE JOYCE."

In the cruel fire of sorrow
Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail,
Let thy heart be firm and steady,
Do not let thy spirit quail;
But wait till the trial be over
And take thy heart again;
For as gold is tried by fire,
A heart must be tried by pain.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

"Oh, my lady, what will Doctor Martin say?" exclaimed Mrs. Heron, as
she almost lifted her young mistress on to the couch, and stood over
her rubbing her cold hands. It was a warm April evening, but Fay was
shivering and her teeth chattering as though with cold.

"What does it matter what he says?" returned Fay; the girl's lips were
white, and there was still a scared look in her eyes. "Is that why
they would not let me see him--because they have cut off his hair and
made him look so unlike himself, and because he talks so strangely?"

"Yes, my lady, and for your own good, and because--" but Fay
interrupted her excitedly.

"My good? as though anything could do me good while my darling husband
suffers so cruelly. Oh, Mrs. Heron, would you believe it? he did not
know me; he looked as though he were afraid of me, his own wife: he
told me to go away and not touch him, and to send Margaret. Oh," with
a sort of restless despair in her voice, "who is this Margaret of whom
he always speaks?"

Mrs. Heron's comely face paled a little with surprise--as she told
Ellerton afterward, she felt at that moment as though a feather would
have knocked her down. "My heart was in my mouth," she observed,
feelingly, "when I heard the pretty creature say those words, 'who is
this Margaret of whom he always speaks?' Oh, I was all in a tremble
when I heard her, and then all at once I remembered Miss Joyce, and it
came to me as a sort of inspiration."

"Do you know who he means?" continued Fay, languidly.

"Indeed, my lady, there is no telling," returned the good housekeeper,
cautiously; "it is often the case with people in fever that they
forget all about the present, and just go back to past days; and so it
may be Sir Hugh thinks about the little sister who died when he was a
lad at school, and of whom he was so fond."

"Sir Hugh never told me he had had a sister," replied Fay, roused to
some animation at this. "Was her name Margaret?"

"Yes, to be sure." But Mrs. Heron