e dark gentleman asks again.

"She's going on well enough," interrupted the woman with the beautiful
dissatisfied face. "What with peaches and grapes from Covent Garden, and
tonics as you might bathe in--"

"Heaven forbid!"

"She _ought_ to get well," the dissatisfied woman continued, as if the
invalid were obstinately bent on remaining ill.

"I was not speaking, at the moment, to you, Mrs. Darling," said the dark
gentleman, with mockery in his politeness, "but to the young lady whom I
have entrusted to your charge."

"A pretty trust!" the woman replied, with a sniff

"Yes, as you kindly say, an extremely pretty trust. And now, Margaret,
my dear--'--"

The fair woman walked to the window, and stared out of it with a
trembling lip, and eyes that saw nothing.

"Now, Margaret, my dear, tell me for yourself, how do you feel?"

"You are very kind," answered the girl at last. "I am sure I am better.
I am not very strong yet. I hope I shall get up soon."

"Is there anything you would like? Perhaps you are tired of peaches and
grapes; may I send you some oranges?"

"Oh, thank you; you are very good. I am often thirsty when I waken, or
rather when I leave off dreaming. I seem to dream, rather than sleep,
just now."

"Poor girl!" said the dark gentleman, in a pitying voice. "And what do
you dream?"

"There seems to be a dreadful quiet, smooth, white place," said the
girl, slowly, "where I am; and something I feel--something, I don't know
what--drives me out of it. I cannot rest in it; and then I find myself
on a dark plain, and a great black horror, a kind of blackness falling
in drifts, like black snow in a wind, sweeps softly over me, till I feel
mixed in the blackness; and there is always some one watching me, and
chasing me in the dark--some one I can't see. Then I slide into the
smooth, white, horrible place again, and feel I _must_ get away from it.
Oh, I don't know which is worst! And they go and come all the while I'm
asleep, I suppose."

"I am waiting for the doctor to look in again; but all _I_ can do is to
get you some Jaffa oranges, nice large ones, myself. You will oblige me,
Mrs. Darling" (he turned to the housekeeper), "by placing them in Miss
Burnside's room, and then, perhaps, she will find them refreshing when
she wakes. Good-by for the moment, Margaret."

The fair woman said nothing, and the dark gentleman walked into the
street, where a hansom cab waited for him. "Covent Garden," he cried to