"I think he will live," said a voice above her.
She looked up. Her brother and the surgeon had come in so quietly she had not heard them. She rose from her wearisome vigil and glided softly down stairs, moved by a divine impulse of pity for the pale watcher below.
"I think it is life," she said, simply.
He sprang up and looked at her, two stars dawning in the dusk eyes, a glory shining on his darkly handsome face.
"Thank God!" he cried, "I am not a murderer!"
And strangely as he had come he was gone.
[CHAPTER VII.]
"I HATE IT—I HATE HER!"