It was six days later when Margot opened her eyes, and found herself lying on the little white bed in the bedroom of the Nag’s Head, with some one by the window whose profile as outlined against the light seemed strangely and sweetly familiar. She stared dumbly, with a confused wonder in her brain. Edith? It could not possibly be Edith! What should bring Edith up to Glenaire in this sudden and unexpected fashion? And why was she herself so weak and languid that to speak and ask the question seemed an almost impossible exertion?
What had happened? Was she only dreaming that her head ached, and her hands seemed too heavy to move, and that Edith sat by the window near a table covered with medicine bottles and glasses? Margot blinked her eyes, and stared curiously around. No! it was no dream; she was certainly awake, and through the dull torpor of her brain a remembrance began slowly to work. Something had happened! She had been tired and cold; oh, cold, cold, cold; so cold that it had seemed impossible to live. She had wandered on and on, through an eternity of darkness, which had ended in the blackness of night. Her head throbbed with the effort of thinking; she shut her eyes and lay quietly, waiting upon remembrance.
Suddenly it came. A faint flush of colour showed itself in the white cheek, and a tingle of warmth ran through the veins. She remembered now upon whose arm she had hung, whose voice it was which had cheered her onward; in trembling, incredulous fashion she remembered what that voice had said!
A faint exclamation sounded through the stillness, whereupon Edith looked round quickly, and hurried to the bedside.
“Margot! My darling! Do you know me at last?”
Margot smiled wanly. The smooth rounded face had fallen away sadly in that week of fever and unconsciousness, and a little hand was pushed feebly forward.
“Of course. I’m so glad! Edie, have I been ill?”
“Yes, darling; but you are better now. After a few days’ rest you will be well again. You must not be nervous about your dear self.”
“And you came?”
“Yes, darling; Ron telegraphed, and father and I came up at once. Agnes is taking care of the boys.”