Grace woke in a paroxysm of pain and terror; till now she had suffered acutely, but there had been no hæmorrhage, now it came on, and poor Margaret, terrified and dreading she knew not what, was driven to despair. Standing by her sister and watching her agonized face she took a solemn vow that at any cost to herself she would save her.
After a night of bitterest anguish and suffering came peace, and Margaret slept on the hard little sofa, slept profoundly through all the stir and bustle of the "Sun" till the afternoon.
There was a shaded light in the room, and when she woke it was with the consciousness of some one gazing at her, which most of us have known by experience. Startled and confused, her lovely eyes still heavy with sleep, and her hair in disorder, she sat up and looked round her.
There, sitting like a silent fate, on the opposite side of the room, was the man she dreaded, Mr. Drayton, who was intently watching her.
Margaret started to her feet, a burning blush rising to her face.
"How did you come here?" she said. "Why did Mrs. Munro let you come upstairs?"
"I have been at Renton, Margaret," (she never noticed that he spoke her name familiarly). "Do you think I could stop away when I knew that you were wandering and by yourself?"
"My sister has been very ill, she is very ill," poor Margaret said, trembling.
"A bad place to be ill in," he said. "No comforts, let alone luxuries. Now what can I do for you? make a friend of me. I will do what I can, and I will do it willingly for your sake."
Margaret could not speak. She had thought everything possible a few hours before, and now——Why did that sound of the sea fill her ears, that sound that made a grand chant as an accompaniment to other words and other tones? She pressed back that memory. Mr. Drayton was again speaking.