exhaustion, lay back limply in her chair and smiled.
"He is out of danger now, Miss Lane. Go home and rest. You can't have had a night's sleep in the last three days."
She looked up into the doctor's bearded face, and shook her head.
"I can carry on, doctor."
"It isn't necessary. Let Mrs. Murdock take your place tonight."
But she was cheerfully obstinate.
"Are you sure she could, doctor?" she demanded, archly; then, without awaiting his answer: "I'll stretch out on the sofa. If he even turns in his sleep, it will wake me."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders and let it go at that. He had learned, in the past three days, that this quiet young woman, who had heard of John's illness and had come to take charge in her professional capacity of his sick room, had a will of iron where his welfare was concerned. Her authority had been unquestioned since the first day, when she had come out victor in a battle of wills with Mrs. Murdock. On the second day, Jarvins had dropped in. She had accepted the flowers he had brought her patient, but had excluded him from the room. As long as John continued in delirium, she preferred to let no one hear his ravings but the doctor and herself.
It had been strange delirium. More than once, Mary Lane had caught her breath at something that came from her patient's wild lips, and had shrunk away from him almost in terror. Once, when the doctor had been there to hear, she had broken down for a moment, and had cried, shudderingly:
"What does it mean, doctor?"
But he had shaken his head, with one large hand on her shoulder to steady her.
"Nothing at all. When he returns to his senses, he'll forget all about it. We must not take delirium seriously."
She had had to be content with that. Yet, pondering those delirious words, she had stolen away up the stairs, to peer into the vast room which had been old John Bamber's. She had seen gaunt Mrs. Murdock in there, dusting—that was all; that, and the vacant arm chair before the fireplace.
And now she slept, the sleep of youth and exhaustion. Impossible to wake her, it seemed; impossible, unless some sound came from her patient. But he also slept.
Somewhere, in the rambling, darkened house in that night, was the sound of shuffling footsteps; but these did not arouse the sleepers. . . .
She sprang up. Her name had been called. It was daylight.
John Bamber, bolt upright in his bed, was pointing a finger at her and shaking with emotion. Though his eyes burned with excitement, he was not delirious.
"Mary! You must go home. You mustn't stay here another minute," he commanded, hoarsely.
She took his outstretched hand between both of hers.
"Why, John?"
"I can't tell you why. You must go."
She suspected that a little of the delirium still lingered; so she glanced at the clock on the mantel, and sparred for time.
"It's only six o'clock," she told him. "Mrs. Murdock may not be up yet, to take my place. You have been very ill, John. I've nursed you."
He looked at her with feverish eyes that seemed to read her mind.
"I've been out of my head. What did I say?"
"Nothing of any importance." She kissed him. "Lie down again, dear. The doctor said he would be here early."
To her astonishment, he obeyed.
"You think I am still delirious," he said, more calmly. "I am not. Do you know why I ask you to leave this house?"
"Because you are not quite yourself, John," she answered, with conviction.
He shook his head.
"I am myself. As long as I was not, it would have been all right. But now my honor is involved. I promised."
"What did you promise?" she asked, humoring him.
"I promised to have nothing to do with you, as long—as long as—my uncle remained in this house."
A little shiver ran through her. She remembered the words of his delirium. And now his manner, though a trifle excited, certainly was not delirious. She forced herself to speak calmly.
"You couldn't break that promise if you wished, John. Have you forgotten, dear? Your uncle is not in this house. He was buried three days ago."
For answer, he sprang out of bed and grasped her by the shoulders.
"Go!" he screamed. "I can't explain. I mustn't explain. Go, for God's sake, before—before—"
He broke off suddenly and burst into sobs, his face hidden in his hands. They were tumultuous, terrified sobs of weakness. The door opened, and Mrs. Murdock peered in.
Mary motioned to her, and, with bowed head, left the room and the house.
IV
A WEEK later John Bamber, recovered from the effects of his fall, sent for Mrs. Murdock. He had not communicated with Mary Lane, since her hasty leave-taking. He could not know that she had received news of him each morning from the housekeeper at the front door, then had quietly gone again.
"Sit down, Mrs. Murdock."
She complied, perching on the edge of a stiff-backed chair-herself very stiff and prim and inscrutable.
He was visibly nervous. His eyes searched her face.
"Have you, by any chance, gone into my uncle's room since—since the funeral?"
"Every day, sir," she replied, composedly.
"Every day!"
"The dusting, Mr. Bamber, is something I never overlook. In a mill town, such as this, it's the one thing that has to be done. Let the other work go, I say, if one must, but not the dusting."
He nodded.
"Have you—disturbed things very much?"
"I've left everything just as it was, sir."
"The chairs?"
"Yes, sir. Even the one before the fireplace is just as I found him in it."
John Bamber seemed inclined to ask something else, but changed his mind and dismissed her with a grave "Thank you."
As she left, he tiptoed to the door and listened to her retreating footsteps. It was ironing day. She had come up from the laundry to answer his call. He followed the sound of her heavy tread until sure she had returned thither. Then he opened his own door wide, and stepped out. His face was pale. He set his lips and clenched his fists.
The sitting-room of the old-fashioned house adjoined his own apartment; then the library with its leaded window above the bookcases, through which the light of the steel works came on gloomy days; then the hall and the stairs. Young John Bamber paused at the foot of the stairs. He seemed to be listening.
When he began the ascent, it was with extreme deliberation. On each step he waited, grasping the baluster to steady himself. His eyes were steadily fixed upward on the closed door of the room at the top of the stairs.
At last, he reached the top, and there hesitated for a long interval, with his hand on the doorknob. Finally he turned the knob impetuously, and flung the door open.
