"Why, what have we been talking of all the evening? What did my mother say to you to-day? What has come to you, Mildred? You certainly are dreaming."
"We have been playing at cross purposes, I fear," gasped Mildred, in her agony. "Tell me who it is you are going to marry."
"Charlotte Travice. Whom else should it be?"
They were then turning round by what was called the boundary wall; the old elms in the dean's garden towered above them, and Mildred's home was close in sight. But before they reached it, William Arkell felt her hang heavily and more heavily on his arm.
Ah! how she was struggling! Not with the pain—that could not be struggled with for a long, long while to come—but with the endeavour to suppress its outward emotion. All, all in vain. William Arkell bent to catch a glimpse of her features under the bonnet—worn large in those days—and found that she was white as death, and appeared to be losing consciousness.
"Mildred, my dear, what ails you?" he asked, kindly. "Do you feel ill?"
She felt dying; but to speak was beyond her, then. William passed his arm round her just in time to prevent her falling, and shouted out, excessively alarmed—
"Peter! Aunt! just come back, will you? Here's something the matter with Mildred."
They were at the door then, but they heard him, and hastened back. Mildred had fainted.
"What can have caused it?" exclaimed Peter, in his consternation. "I never knew her faint in all her life before."