"You are Eleanor Hardinge," he said. "You are perfectly safe, and you will soon be quite well."
"But I am afraid," she cried, with a sudden shrill note of terror. "My head is going round. I cannot think clearly."
He took her hand in his. There was something soothing in the touch of his firm, cool fingers.
"You have no cause for fear," he said reassuringly—"none whatever. You are getting better and stronger every hour."
She raised herself a little from among the pillows. Her eyes sought his eagerly. Her hands refused to let his go.
"I am afraid," she moaned. "There are shadows everywhere among my thoughts. Tell me. Have I been mad? Am I going to be mad?"
His fingers strayed to her pulse. He smiled upon her as one smiles upon a child.
"Nonsense! Look at me."
His eyes held her.
"You are not going to be mad. You are merely suffering from a great shock. By and by everything will be clear to you. You must not be impatient. I promise you that you will soon be well."