"She is out of her head," exclaimed the doctor, turning nervously to his attendant. "I ought not to have taken this girl in," he continued, in alarm. "I fear we shall have no end of trouble with her. This looks like a long and lingering illness."
"She is so young, and as fair as a flower," murmured the attendant, bending over her. "I feel very sorry for her. If a fever should happen to set in, do you think it would prove fatal to her?" she asked, eagerly.
"In nine cases out of ten—yes," he replied, brusquely.
At the very hour that this conversation was taking place, Royal Ainsley, the scape-grace, was ascending the brown-stone steps of the St. John mansion.
"I will take beautiful Florence and her stately mamma to the ball to-night," he mused, under his breath. "Before we return, I will have proposed to the haughty beauty. Trust me for that. They think I am the heir of my uncle, wealthy old Royal Ainsley, who died recently, and—curse him!—left all his wealth to my gentlemanly cousin, even making him change his name to that of Eugene Mallard, that the outside world might not confound it with mine. Yes, I will marry beautiful Florence St. John, and live a life of luxury!"
In that moment there rose before his mental vision the sweet sad face of beautiful Ida May, the fair young girl whom he had wronged so cruelly and then deserted so heartlessly.
[CHAPTER XIX.]
The servant who answered the bell at that moment, put a stop to Royal Ainsley's musings.