PART II.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.
When Deborah awaked, old Marjory was sitting watching over her; the sun was still glorious on the woods outside, but the chamber was left in grateful gloom. She could not even distinguish her father's picture; but soon, clear and distinct through the gloom, laughed out the boyish face of Charlie. Charlie? What had Charlie done? Mute and still, Deborah looked up at her old nurse, while the darkness of reality dawned on her wakening mind.
'Thou'rt ill, child,' said old Marjory abruptly.
'What makes you think so, dame?' asked Deborah faintly.
'Why, thy face betrays thee; it is white as my apron, and thine was a sleep o' sorrow. I know it. Thou'lt eat summat now, an' no more o' these airs.'
'Have ye no letter or message for me, Marjory? What are you hiding there?' and Deborah raised herself in feverish excitement.
'Why, it's a letter that'll keep, I warrant me, my Lady Deb. It's from the old man at Lincoln.'
'Give it me, Marjory, and leave me, dear old dame. I wish to be alone.'
So Marjory left her; but soon the old woman was knocking at the door again with food and wine for Deborah. She found her sitting on the floor white as a ghost. 'O child, thou'rt faintin' for good victuals! There! eat and drink like a Christian. Why, bless thee, Lady Deb, dear, I know the master's in his old quandaries. But don't take on, my Rose.'