Had not Marcia insisted on leaving her door ajar lest the invalid call, the girl might have slipped down stairs in the darkness and returned the handkerchief.
As it was, fate forced her to put it into her bureau drawer and await more favorable opportunity.
This, alas, did not come.
Sun was tinting the lavender sands to rose and gilding the water with its first flecks of gold when she saw Marcia standing at the foot of her bed.
"Mr. Heath has a high fever and can scarcely speak aloud," explained she. "I'm afraid he is quite ill. I wish you'd call up Doctor Stetson."
"Mercy on us!"
The girl, drowsy and heavy-eyed, sprang out of bed.
"I'll be down in just a minute," she exclaimed. "How do you happen to be up so early?"
"I've been up off and on all night," answered Marcia. "Mr. Heath was restless and thirsty. About midnight I heard him tossing about, and thinking he might be hungry, I heated some broth and took it to him."
"I didn't hear you. I must have been dead to the world. Why didn't you speak?"