"Open it! Open it!" gasped the young man, impatiently.
Webb threw open a leaf of the French window. Struggling to his elbow, young Hurst leaned out, scanning the flower-garden with bright and eager eyes. But the arm on which he leaned trembled with weakness, and soon gave way. His head fell upon the cushions, and his eyes closed wearily.
"I cannot see her," he murmured, under his breath. "I cannot see her. She could not have escaped if it had been real. Ah, me! Why should dreams mock one so?"
"Let me close the window," said Webb, anxiously. "The air is too much for you."
"Yes, close it," answered Hurst, with a sigh; "but first look out, and tell me if you see any one moving among the flowers."
Webb stepped into the balcony and examined the grounds beneath it. As he did this, a gust of wind swept through the opposite door and carried with it a folded paper, which had fallen from the invalid's hand when he staggered up from the bed.
"No," said Webb, closing the window. "I see no one but a young woman going round to the servant's entrance."
"A young woman! Who is it? Who is it?"
"No one that I have seen before. Nay, now that I look again, it is the young woman from the public over in the village."
"What is she doing here?" questioned Hurst, impatiently.