phemia on the ledge by the shaft, watching the sunset, had barely
time to withdraw his hand from hers, as Mrs. Sol, a trifle pale and
wearied-looking, approached him.

"I don't like to trouble you," she said,--indeed, they had seldom
troubled him with the details of Mornie's convalescence, or even her
needs and requirements,--"but the doctor is alarmed about Mornie, and
she has asked to see you. I think you'd better go in and speak to her.
You know," continued Mrs. Sol delicately, "you haven't been in there
since the night she was taken sick, and maybe a new face might do her
good."

The guilty blood flew to Rand's face as he stammered, "I thought I'd be
in the way. I didn't believe she cared much to see me. Is she worse?"

"The doctor is looking very anxious," said Mrs. Sol simply.

The blood returned from Rand's face, and settled around his heart. He
turned very pale. He had consoled himself always for his complicity
in Ruth's absence, that he was taking good care of Mornie, or--what
is considered by most selfish natures an equivalent--permitting or
encouraging some one else to "take good care of her;" but here was
a contingency utterly unforeseen. It did not occur to him that this
"taking good care" of her could result in anything but a perfect
solution of her troubles, or that there could be any future to her
condition but one of recovery. But what if she should die? A sudden
and helpless sense of his responsibility to Ruth, to HER, brought him
trembling to his feet.

He hurried to the cabin, where Mrs. Sol left him with a word of caution:
"You'll find her changed and quiet,--very quiet. If I was you, I
wouldn't say anything to bring back her old self."

The change which Rand saw was so great, the face that was turned to him
so quiet, that, with a new fear upon him, he would have preferred the
savage eyes and reckless mien of the old Mornie whom he hated. With his
habitual impulsiveness he tried to say something that should express
that fact not unkindly, but faltered, and awkwardly sank into the chair
by her bedside.

"I don't wonder you stare at me now," she said in a far-off voice. "It
seems to you strange to see me lying here so quiet. You are thinking how
wild I was when I came here that night. I must have been crazy, I think.
I dreamed that I said dreadful things to you; but you must forgive me,
and not mind it. I was crazy then." She stopped, and folded the blanket
between her thin fingers. "I didn't