am almost positive that it is not going to be one of those
long illnesses which sometimes follow attacks of this sort."

"But at best it's rather serious, isn't it?" Winthrop asked.

The Doctor looked at him. "Yes," he answered, gravely.

"If you would let me know from time to time? This is my New York
address. It will be more satisfactory to hear directly from you. You can
tell her I have gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes; back to New York."

"Oh," said Reginald Kirby. Then, "Ah," he added, this time with the
accepting falling inflection.

Winthrop was behaving much better than he had thought he would. All the
same, it was now the part of every one to speed him on his way. "I will
write with great regularity," he said, extending his hand in good-by. "I
will write three times a week," he added, with heartiness; he wanted to
do something for the man, and this was all he could do.

He returned to his patient. Winthrop went out to order the horses.

He came back while the negroes were making ready. The lower door still
stood open, the house was very quiet; he stole up-stairs and listened
for a moment near Margaret's room. There was no sound within; he had the
man's usual fear--non-comprehension--of a woman's illness. "Why are they
so quiet in there?" he thought; "why don't they speak? _What_ are they
doing to her?"

But there was a very good reason for the stillness; the Doctor had given
Margaret a powerful sedative, and he and Celestine were waiting for the
full effect.

Winthrop at length left the door; he realized that this was not a good
beginning in the carrying out of his promise to himself.

As he passed down the hall on his way to the stairs he happened to have
a glimpse into a room whose door stood partly open; here, ranged in
order, locked and ready, were Margaret's trunks, prepared for the
journey to Fernandina.

Well, if he was to get away at all, he must go at once!

CHAPTER XXXV.

Two weeks passed before the Doctor would allow Margaret to begin her
night without an opiate, which should numb her constant weariness into
some semblance of rest. During this time he himself did not leave East
Angels.

At the beginning of the third week the pale woman in the darkened room
began to recover some vitality; she spoke to them, she asked to have the
curtains drawn aside; she refused their opiates, even the mildest. The
Doctor, relieved, went up to Gracias to see his other patients.

That night, about on