"Well, child, what do you want?" said she, trembling, despite her assumed indifference. Beulah looked at her vacantly, then threw her arms restlessly over the pillow, and slept again. Mrs. Chilton drew up a chair, seated herself, and sank into a reverie of some length. Ultimately she was aroused by perceiving her brother beside her, and said hastily:
"How is Mr. Vincent? Not dangerously ill, I hope!"
"Tomorrow will decide that. It is now ten minutes past ten; how many potions have you given?"
"Two," answered she firmly.
"Thank you, May. I will relieve you now. Good-night."
"But you are worn out, and I am not. Let me sit up. I will wake you if any change occurs."
"Thank you, I prefer watching tonight. Take that candle, and leave it on the table in the hall. I need nothing but moonlight. Leave the door open." As the flickering light vanished, he threw himself into the chair beside the bed.
CHAPTER VIII.
It was in the gray light of dawning day that Beulah awoke to consciousness. For some moments after unclosing her eyes they wandered inquiringly about the room, and finally rested on the tall form of the watcher, as he stood at the open window. Gradually memory gathered up its scattered links, and all the incidents of that hour of anguish rushed vividly before her. The little table, with its marble sleeper; then a dim recollection of having been carried to a friendly shelter. Was it only yesterday evening, and had she slept? The utter prostration which prevented her raising her head, and the emaciated appearance of her hands, told her "no." Too feeble even to think, she moaned audibly. Dr. Hartwell turned and looked at her. The room was still in shadow, though the eastern sky was flushed, and he stepped to the bedside. The fever had died out, the cheeks were very pale, and the unnaturally large, sunken eyes lusterless. She looked at him steadily, yet with perfect indifference. He leaned over, and said eagerly:
"Beulah, do you know me?"