"At ten o'clock. I heard the hall clock strike that hour soon after I opened my eyes. I counted every stroke. There were persons in the room at the time, but no one knew of my recovery of consciousness. I lay as if spellbound. I heard conversation and understood it; I remember every word of it yet—I shall ever remember it. But, when they came to me, I was unable to speak or make a sign."
"Unable, or unwilling? I have said before, Miriam, the will has much to do with all this. It is a sort of magnetic seizure, I sometimes think."
"Both, perhaps, involuntary; but I certainly did not wish to grow unconscious again."
"Yet you wanted to die a while ago—child, child, there is something wrong here! What is it? Tell me frankly. I heard of the scene with Mr. Stanbury—the passionate old man was very unwise to excite you so; he meant well, though, no doubt—he always does. What more has occurred? Now, tell me candidly—much depends on the truth—has any one been unkind?"
"Whatever I say to you, Dr. Pemberton, must be under the pledge of confidence," I replied; "otherwise I shall keep my own counsel."
"Surely, Miriam."
"Well, then, I overheard some one saying, when I revived this morning, that I was epileptic, and it troubled me. Now, I call upon you solemnly to answer me truthfully on this point. Of what character is my disease?—speak earnestly."
"I do not know—not epilepsy, certainly; partially nervous, I think—one of Nature's strange safety-valves, I suppose."
"You would not deceive me?"
"Not under present circumstances, surely; not at any time after such an appeal as yours."