e quietly. "You
need not be at all alarmed; you may have heard that I am something of a
doctor, and, as I found that you did not seem well, I took the liberty
of bringing you here."

"I don't remember," she said softly, opening her blue eyes and looking
at him--without shyness, as he noticed, but with a kind of wistful
trust which appealed to all the tenderness of his nature. "Did I faint?"
There was a slight emphasis on the last word.

"You were unconscious for a time," said the Rector. "But I hope that you
feel better now."

She gave him a curious look--whether of shame or of reproach he could
not tell--then buried her face in the pillows and began to cry quietly,
with her fingers before her eyes.

"My dear Miss Vane, can I not do anything for you? I will call the
housekeeper," said the Rector, driven almost to desperation by the sight
of her tears. It was always very painful to him to see a woman cry.

"No, no!" she said, raising her head for a moment. "No--don't call any
one, please; I shall be better directly. I know what was the matter
now."

She dried her eyes and tried to calm herself, while the Rector stood by
the table in the middle of the room, nervously turning over books and
pamphlets, and pretending not to see that she was crying still.

"Mr. Evandale," she said at length, "I don't know how to thank you for
being so kind. I must tell you----"

"Don't tell me anything that is painful to you, Miss Vane."

"It will not be painful to tell you after your great kindness to me.
I--I am subject to these attacks. The doctors say that they do not
exactly understand the case, but they think that I shall outgrow them in
course of time. I have not had one for six months till to-night." She
burst into tears again.

"But, my dear child,"--he could not help saying it--the words slipped
from his lips against his will--"there is nothing to be so troubled
about; a little faintness now and then--many people suffer from it."

"Ah, you do not understand!" she said quickly. "It is not faintness at
all. I am often quite conscious all the time. I remember now how you
found me and brought me here. I was not insensible all the time, but I
cannot move or speak when I am like that. It has been so ever
since--ever since my father died." She lowered her voice, as if she were
telling something that was terrible to her.

"I see," said Mr. Evandale kindly--"it is an affection of the nerves,
which you will get over when you a