softly
sleeping, the tiny fragile one was borne in and laid in her arms, its
soft, downy cheek resting upon her breast, the faintest dawning of a
smile played for an instant upon the mother's lip, her eyes gazed
straight upwards for a few moments, and then closed, when, as Dr
Challen swiftly pressed forward, to lean with anxious mien over the
pillow, Mrs Elstree sank fainting into weeping Jane's arms, while, with
a despairing wail, Ada Norton gave utterance to one word, that sounded
more like declaration than eager demand, as it thrilled through the
strained nerves of all present, and that word was: "Dead?"

Book 1, Chapter XIX.

NOT YET.

Ada Norton's wild appeal was answered by the Doctor's hand being held up
to command silence, and, for many hours from that moment, as he tended
his patient, he refused to answer all questions. At last, though, with
a sigh almost of pleasure, he said:

"I'll lie down now for a few hours. Call me when she wakes."

Only those who have watched by a bedside, expecting moment by moment
that the grim shade would claim its prey, can imagine the relief
afforded to all by that simple sentence. It told of hope and refreshing
slumber; of a return to consciousness; and, bent of head, the old Rector
left the chamber, feeling that his prayer had been heard, hopeful too,
now, that in all its plenitude the rest of his supplication would be
granted.

The change from despair to hopefulness was so sudden that, again and
again, Ada bent in doubt over her cousin's pillow, to press a gentle
kiss upon her pale face, before she could feel satisfied respecting that
faint, regular breathing, culminating now and then in a sigh of
satisfaction, so faint that it was like the softest breath of summer.
But, relieved in spirit, she at length took her departure, thanking Jane
for hurrying over to summon her as she had done.

Mrs Norton found her husband excitedly pacing the walk in front of the
house, and he made no scruple about displaying the cause of his anxiety,
for, hurrying to his wife's side, he caught her hands in his,
exclaiming:

"What of poor Marion?" And then, reading in her countenance that his
worst fears were not confirmed, he muttered a sigh of relief, "Thank
Heaven!--thank Heaven!"

"I fancy now that there is hope," whispered his wife, who, steadfast and
true herself, refused to harbour the slightest suspicion. He was
anxious respecting poor Marion Gernon's fate, and why should he no