“Oh, my lady, what will Doctor Martin say?” exclaimed Mrs. Heron, as she almost lifted her young mistress on to the couch, and stood over her rubbing her cold hands. It was a warm April evening, but Fay was shivering and her teeth chattering as though with cold.

“What does it matter what he says?” returned Fay; the girl’s lips were white, and there was still a scared look in her eyes. “Is that why they would not let me see him—because they have cut off his hair and made him look so unlike himself, and because he talks so strangely?”

“Yes, my lady, and for your own good, and because—” but Fay interrupted her excitedly.

“My good? as though anything could do me good while my darling husband suffers so cruelly. Oh, Mrs. Heron, would you believe it? he did not know me; he looked as though he were afraid of me, his own wife: he told me to go away and not touch him, and to send Margaret. Oh,” with a sort of restless despair in her voice, “who is this Margaret of whom he always speaks?”

Mrs. Heron’s comely face paled a little with surprise—as she told Ellerton afterward, she felt at that moment as though a feather would have knocked her down. “My heart was in my mouth,” she observed, feelingly, “when I heard the pretty creature say those words, ‘who is this Margaret of whom he always speaks?’ Oh, I was all in a tremble when I heard her, and then all at once I remembered Miss Joyce, and it came to me as a sort of inspiration.”“Do you know who he means?” continued Fay, languidly.

“Indeed, my lady, there is no telling,” returned the good housekeeper, cautiously; “it is often the case with people in fever that they forget all about the present, and just go back to past days; and so it may be Sir Hugh thinks about the little sister who died when he was a lad at school, and of whom he was so fond.”

“Sir Hugh never told me he had had a sister,” replied Fay, roused to some animation at this. “Was her name Margaret?”

“Yes, to be sure.” But Mrs. Heron forbore to mention that the child had always been called by her second name Joyce. “Ay, she was a pretty little dear, and Master Hugh—I mean Sir Hugh—doated on her; she had the whooping-cough very badly, and Miss Joy—I mean Miss Margaret was always delicate, and it just carried her off.”

“And my husband was fond of her?” was the musing reply, “and yet it seems strange that he should go back all those years and think of his baby sister.”

“I don’t think Doctor Martin would say it was strange if you were to ask him, my lady,” was the diplomatic answer. “We might mention it to-morrow, and see what he says. You may depend upon it that folk travel backward in their mind when the fever gets hold of their brain. Most likely he is thinking a deal of his mother and Miss Margaret, for he was always an affectionate lad was Master Hugh.”

“Dear Margaret! that was what he called her.”

“Ay, no doubt, precious little lamb. I can see her now, with her curly head and white frock, as she pelted Master Hugh with rose-leaves on the lawn. Now, my lady, you are only fit for bed, and there is not a morsel of color in your face, and Ellerton says you hardly touched dinner. Now I am going to bring you up a glass of wine and a sandwich, and you will let Janet help you undress.”

Fay was too weary to resist. What did it matter, she thought again; but with her usual sweet courtesy she thanked Mrs. Heron, and tried to swallow a few mouthfuls, though they seemed to choke her, but she was glad when they left her alone. Sleep? how was she to sleep, with this nightmare of horror oppressing her? Again, the poor shaven head was lying in her bosom. She was kissing the wide staring eyes. Why had he pushed her from him? “Oh, Hugh, you ought to have known me,” she sobbed, as she tossed wearily in the darkness. Janet, who was sleeping in the adjoining room, heard her once and came to her bedside.

“Were you calling me, my lady?” she asked.

“No, Janet,” answered the poor child. “I am only crying because I am so unhappy.”

“Better go to sleep, my lady,” was Janet’s sympathizing reply; “things seem always worse in the dark; most likely we shall hear the master is better to-morrow. Saville says he has a deal of strength in him and will cheat the doctors yet;” and somehow this homely consolation soothed Fay, and by and by she slept the unbroken sleep of youth.

Dr. Martin listened to Mrs. Heron’s account with a very grave face the next morning, but he chose to make light of the whole affair to Fay.

“You hardly deserve to be told that this escapade of yours, Lady Redmond, has done our patient no harm,” he observed, in a half-joking voice. “Sir Hugh is quieter to-day—much quieter. I should not be surprised if there be decided improvement in a few hours, but,” as Fay’s eyes filled with tears of thankfulness, “it was a very risky thing to do, and as you deserve to be punished for it, I must insist that these ponies of yours, who are eating their heads off with idleness, shall be put in harness at once, and you will please take a long drive that will not bring you within sight of Redmond Hall for the next two hours.”

Fay laughed at the doctor’s grim face, but she was ready to promise him obedience if Hugh were better; she was quite willing to take the drive; she rang and ordered the ponies at once, and took the reins in her own hands. The fresh spring sunshine was delicious; the soft breezes seemed laden with messages of hope. Dr. Martin was right when he ordered that drive. Fay’s little pale face looked less miserable as she restrained her ponies’ frolics. She found herself listening to the birds and noticing the young spring foliage with her old interest as they drove through the leafy lanes. Fay had just turned her ponies’ heads toward the winding road that led straight to the shore, when the frisky little animals shied playfully at a lady in a gray cloak who was standing by the hedge looking at a nest of young linnets. As she turned Fay saw that it was Miss Ferrers, and involuntarily checked her ponies, and at the same moment Miss Ferrers stepped into the road.

“Oh, Lady Redmond,” she said, and Fay wondered why she was so pale. Had she been ill too? “This is a most unexpected pleasure. May I—may I”—hesitating for a moment, “ask you to stop and speak to me?”

“Certainly,” returned Fay; and with quick impulse she handed the reins to the groom, and sprung into the road. “Take the ponies up and down, Ford; I shall not be long. I was just going down on the beach for a breath of sea-air,” she continued, turning to Margaret, “and I am so glad I have met you, because we can go together,” for she thought Hugh would certainly not mind her exchanging a few courteous words with Miss Ferrers when they met face to face; besides Miss Ferrers had asked to speak to her.

“I wanted to know—but of course I see by your face—that Sir Hugh is better,” began Margaret, but her dry lips would hardly fashion the words.

“Oh, yes,” returned Fay, eagerly. “Doctor Martin says he is quieter, much quieter, this morning, and he hopes to find decided improvement in a few hours; oh, Miss Ferrers, it has been such a terrible time, I do not know how I have lived through it.”

“It must have been dreadful for you, and you are looking ill yourself, Lady Redmond,” with a pitying glance at the small white face that looked smaller and thinner since she saw it last.

“I do not know how I have been,” returned Fay, simply. “I seemed to have no feeling, the time passed somehow, it was always meal-time, and one could not eat, and then night came, but it was not always possible to sleep. I was always wandering about, and it did not seem easy to pray, and then they came and told me it was wrong to grieve so, but how could I help it?”

“Was there no one to come to you, to be with you, I mean?” but Fay shook her head.

“I did not want them. Aunt Griselda would have come, but I would not let them send for her, she would only have troubled me. Erle—Erle Huntingdon I mean—came down, but I did not want to see him; it only made me cry, so he went away, and since then I have been alone.”

“Poor child,” returned Margaret, softly. Yes, she was not too young to suffer; she and Raby had not done full justice to her. The childish face had lost its baby roundness; the beautiful eyes were dim with weeping; the strained white look of endurance that one sees on older faces was on hers: and, with a sudden impulse that she could not control, Margaret stooped and kissed her. “Oh, I am so sorry for you, what you must have suffered,” she said, in a voice that seemed full of tears.

Fay responded to the caress most warmly. “Oh, you are always so kind; one feels you understand without telling. I thought you would be sorry for me. Do you know I did something dreadfully wrong yesterday; they have never let me see him—they have shut me out of my husband’s room—but last evening Saville left the door ajar, and I went in.”

“You went in; oh, Lady Redmond!” and Margaret shuddered as though the sea breezes chilled her.

“Yes, and he did not know me; fancy a husband not knowing his wife. They had cut off his beautiful hair, and be looked so strange, and his eyes were so bright and large, and then, when I kissed him, he pushed me away. Miss Ferrers”—with a quick remembrance of the housekeeper’s words—“you were old friends, at least Hugh said so; do you remember his ever speaking of a little sister who died?”

“Oh, yes,” returned Margaret, quickly; “little Joyce; he was very fond of her as a boy, she was a lovely little creature.”

“Joyce, but her name was Margaret, Mrs. Heron says.”

“To be sure, I remember now, Margaret Joyce; it is engraved so on the tombstone, but they never called her Margaret, it was always Joyce.”

“How strange,” replied Fay, in a puzzled tone; they were standing on a little strip of beach now, and the waves were coming in with a lazy splash and ripple; there was no one in sight, and only a little boat with sails rocking in the distance; how calm and still and peaceful it looked. “Little Joyce,” she repeated, dreamily, while the soft sea breeze fanned the little tendrils of hair from her temples; “but it was dear Margaret for whom he was asking.”

There was a quick gasp strangled before it rose to a sob—for one moment Margaret thought she was in danger of swooning—the sky seemed whirling, the sea was all round her, the sand was nothing but a giddy circle of purple and rose, and blinding yellow; then it passed, there was firm ground under her feet, the mist cleared before her eyes, and Fay was holding her by the arm.

“Were you giddy? how white you looked. Shall we sit down a little? your hand is trembling still.”

“It was nothing, I have not been strong lately; yes, we will sit, the air will do us both good. What were you saying, Lady Redmond?” as though the words were not burned into her memory: “Dear Margaret!” Why, the very angels must have wept to hear him!

“Whom could he mean?” continued Fay, with nervous reiteration. “I don’t believe Mrs. Heron was right when she said that he was thinking of his baby sister; he would have called her Joyce. Margaret; there is no one that I know who has that name except yourself; but,” looking at her doubtfully, “though you were old friends, it was not likely that he meant you.”

A deep flush rose to Margaret’s face, a quick petition for help and wisdom to guide her at this critical moment rose from her heart.

“He used to call me Margaret, in the old days,” she said, in a very low voice. “That need not surprise you, Lady Redmond, as we were such old friends; his mother called me Margaret too.”

“You knew his mother.”

“Yes, when I was a child, Sir Hugh and I were playfellows; has he not told you that; ah, well, it is sad when old friends get estranged. Lady Redmond, I see you have a question on your lips, may I ask you not to put it. I think that it would not be acting honorably to your husband if you should hear anything from our lips; he can not tell you himself now, but it will not hurt you to wait.”

“No,” replied Fay, slowly, “no, it would not hurt me to wait, as you say, but then you see Hugh may refuse to tell me, as he did before.”

“Will you ask him again, and see if he refuse? will you tell him that Margaret Ferrers begs him most earnestly to tell you why Redmond Hall and the Grange are estranged? tell him, that no consideration for us need seal his lips any longer, that he has always been free to speak, that we will willingly take our share of blame; will you tell him this?”

“Oh, yes,” returned Fay, in a relieved voice; “and he will be sure to tell me now; no doubt he was afraid of paining you in some way. Hugh is so kind-hearted, he hates to make any one uncomfortable. I will not try to find out any more by myself; I will be good and patient until he gets well.”

“That is spoken like a brave wife,” replied Margaret, with a faint smile. “By one who loves her husband more than herself.”

“As I love Hugh,” was the soft response; “dear Miss Ferrers, I must go now; the ponies will be growing restless, and I am a long way from home.”

“Yes, I must not keep you. God bless you, Lady Redmond. Will you forgive me if I stop here, for I have been walking from Pierrepoint, and need rest,” but Margaret did not add that her strength had forsaken her, and that she dared not move from her place for fear her limbs should refuse to carry her; she would wait a little until strength came back, and she could meet Raby with her usual calmness.

“Yes, you look very tired,” was Fay’s unconscious answer; “but you will soon get rested with this lovely air.” And then she kissed her affectionately, and went up the beach with her old elastic step, and Margaret watched her sadly until she was out of sight.

“She is sweet and good, but he does not love her yet,” she said to herself; “but it will come, it must come in time.”

Fay drove happily home, and was met at the lodge gates by the good news that Sir Hugh had had an hour or two’s refreshing sleep, and that Dr. Conway, as well as Dr. Martin, were quite satisfied with the progress he had made.

“Oh, could it be quite true?” Fay asked, when she reached the Hall.

Yes, it was quite true the fever had abated. Sir Hugh’s wonderful strength and vitality had triumphed at last, and the doctors soon announced that he was out of danger.

There were still days of weary waiting for Fay before it was pronounced safe for her to enter her husband’s sickroom; but at last the day came, and one sweet spring evening, Hugh waking up from a brief doze, felt tears falling on his forehead, and saw Fay leaning over him. He was too weak even to put out his hand, but a faint smile came to his lips. “My Wee Wifie,” Fay heard him say, but the next moment the smile had died away into sadness.