"I am your nurse," said the woman, smiling. "Mrs. Leonard hired me to take care of you, and look after things generally until she came back."
"Came back! Has she gone away, then?"
"Oh, dear, yes! the whole family, children and all; they were afraid of the fever, although the doctor said there was no danger."
"Where have they gone?" said Georgia, faintly.
"To New York. It's my opinion the young ladies were glad of any chance of getting back to town, and it was they, particularly Miss Felice, who insisted on leaving. Don't disturb yourself about them, my dear; you will soon be as well as any of them."
"Tell me," said Georgia, catching the woman's wrists in her thin, transparent hands, and looking earnestly in her face with the great black eyes so sunken and melancholy now—"tell me if you know whether a certain Mr. Randall who used to come here went with them? Perhaps you have heard?"
The woman shook her head.
"No, my dear, I have not. I have heard of him, though, often; they say he is very clever and going to be married to Miss Felice, but I don't know myself. Don't talk so much, Miss Randall; it is not good for you."
"One thing more," said Georgia. "I—I raved when I was out of my mind; will you tell me what it was I said?"
"That would be pretty hard to do," said the nurse, smiling; but then, seeing the look of desperate earnestness on her patient's face, she added: "Why, you know, my dear, you talked a great deal of nonsense—fever patients always do—about some one you called Richmond, and Freddy Richmond—some gentlemen, I expect," said the woman, with a meaning glance; "and you called yourself a murderess, and then you kept begging some one not to be angry with you, and you would never do so any more; and sometimes you would talk to the children, and fancy yourself in the school-room with them. In short, you know, you said all sorts of queer things; but that was to be expected."