"Dear Grace, don't be worried." He now spoke in the gentlest tones, and lifted her hand to his lips. A quick, evanescent smile illumined her face. She fawned against his shoulder a moment, placed his hand against her cheek, and then leaned upon his arm as they resumed their walk, Dr. Armand keeping near them without in the least attracting her attention.
"Grace," resumed Graham, "you must remember. Hilland, Warren, you know."
She dropped his arm, looked wildly around, covered her face with her hands, and shuddered convulsively.
After a moment he said, kindly but firmly, "Grace, dear Grace."
She sprang to him, seized his hand, and casting a look of suspicion at
Dr. Armand, drew him away.
A few moments later she was again looking tranquilly at the west, but the light had departed from the sky and from her face. It had the look of one who saw not, thought and felt not. It was breathing, living death.
Graham looked at her mournfully for a few moments, and then, with a gesture that was almost despairing, turned to the physician, who had not lost a single expression.
"Thank you," was that gentleman's first laconic remark; and he dropped into a chair, still with his eyes on the motionless figure of Grace.
At last he asked, "How long would she maintain that position?"
"I scarcely know," was the sad response; "many hours certainly."