he saw her he felt completely reassured.
She did not look very ill. Sitting by her side he would tell her what
he had been doing, using his natural voice to speak to her, only a few
tones lower down than usual; but by the time he had sat there for five
minutes he was plunged into the deepest gloom. She was not the same;
he could not bring them back to their old relationship; but although he
knew that it was foolish he could not prevent himself from endeavouring
to bring her back, to make her remember, and when this failed he was in
despair. He always concluded as he left her room that it was worse to
see her than not to see her, but by degrees, as the day wore on, the
desire to see her returned and became almost too great to be borne.

On Thursday morning when Terence went into her room he felt the usual
increase of confidence. She turned round and made an effort to remember
certain facts from the world that was so many millions of miles away.

"You have come up from the hotel?" she asked.

"No; I'm staying here for the present," he said. "We've just had
luncheon," he continued, "and the mail has come in. There's a bundle of
letters for you--letters from England."

Instead of saying, as he meant her to say, that she wished to see them,
she said nothing for some time.

"You see, there they go, rolling off the edge of the hill," she said
suddenly.

"Rolling, Rachel? What do you see rolling? There's nothing rolling."

"The old woman with the knife," she replied, not speaking to Terence
in particular, and looking past him. As she appeared to be looking at a
vase on the shelf opposite, he rose and took it down.

"Now they can't roll any more," he said cheerfully. Nevertheless she lay
gazing at the same spot, and paid him no further attention although he
spoke to her. He became so profoundly wretched that he could not endure
to sit with her, but wandered about until he found St. John, who was
reading _The_ _Times_ in the verandah. He laid it aside patiently, and
heard all that Terence had to say about delirium. He was very patient
with Terence. He treated him like a child.

By Friday it could not be denied that the illness was no longer an
attack that would pass off in a day or two; it was a real illness that
required a good deal of organisation, and engrossed the attention of
at least five people, but there was no reason to be anxious. Instead
of lasting five days it was going to last ten days. Rodriguez was
unders