AN UNEXPECTED DECLARATION.

In a white bed in a darkened room at the institution to which Sister Angela belonged, poor Beatrix lay moaning and tossing in pain. For she was stricken down with brain fever, and there seemed to be small hope of her recovery.

She had not told Sister Angela her name, therefore no one at the institution was able to identify her; and although the physician in charge of Beatrix saw the advertisement which Keith had inserted in the newspapers, how could he guess that the Beatrix who was implored to return to K was the very patient in whom the physician was becoming strangely interested? All that he did know concerning her history was what Sister Angela had repeated to him; and of course the information was meager enough; for in her misery poor Beatrix had not felt inclined to confide absolutely. But the physician saw for himself how beautiful the girl was, and that she was a refined and delicate lady, and his interest grew and flourished.

Sister Angela confided in Doctor Darrow the outlines of the girl's case as far as she herself knew, that is, in regard to her strange inheritance. Doctor Darrow's face grew pale as death, and his gray eyes dilated with horror until they were as dark as night.

"It can not be possible!" he exclaimed. "It seems incredible! We will keep her secluded from every one else here, and I will study her case in my spare moments. You are aware that I am devoting myself to the study of this horrible disease, and this will be a grand opportunity to test some of my theories in regard to the matter. Heaven help her, poor child! And she is so young and beautiful. I wonder where her home is, and who she is?"

But Beatrix, in her delirium, raved in such incoherent phrases that no one could find a clew to her identity, her name, or former home. It was all about the sorrow of a parting—a parting from some loved one—which she expressed in her wild ravings; and although Douglas Darrow passed nearly all his time at her bedside, he could find nothing tangible to guide him in a search for the friends of the unfortunate girl. Douglas Darrow was young and handsome—an enthusiast in his profession; he was all alone in the world, and the possessor of a fair fortune. He grew deeply interested in his mysterious patient, and ere he had realized the truth he found himself crossing the boundary that separates friendly interest from the fatal passion of love. But poor Beatrix, tossing in wild delirium upon her white bed, was deaf and blind to everything around her. To human eyes it seemed better for her to pass away now, and drift down the dark river of death into the great unknown. But the Father, who guides and directs us, had His own plans for her future, and so poor Beatrix did not die.

She struggled back to consciousness one day, and as the great dark eyes opened slowly they fell upon the face of Doctor Darrow, who was seated at her bedside.

"Keith!" she faltered, trying to arise, but the effort was too much, and her head fell back upon the pillow and she fainted away. Her constitution seemed entirely broken down, and her long illness, preceded by that awful shock which had ruined her whole life, had left her weak to bear the heavy burden. Douglas Darrow soon restored her to consciousness, and administered a sleeping potion. She sank, at last, into a refreshing slumber, and the young physician began to hope that she might be saved.

"If she awakens in her senses, with her reason unclouded," he said to Sister Angela, who stood gazing sadly down upon the weak little sufferer, "she will recover, I think—I am positive. But she must not have the least excitement; no questions must be asked her; she must not be annoyed in any way, or we will not be able to save her. Yet, after all," he went on tremulously, "it seems better that she should go now. Only think of the future in store for her!"

"Our Father in Heaven knows best," returned Sister Angela, softly; "we can afford to leave it all in His hands."

The young man turned aside with something like a sob.

"You are an angel!" he cried. "The world would be purer and better if there were more women like you."

When one looks about and sees the women of the world—the fashion-plates and simpering dolls of society—then turns to the pure white lives of those like Sister Angela, one can not fail to echo Douglas Darrow's words: "To visit the fatherless and the widow in their affliction, and to keep ourselves unspotted from the world." This was Sister Angela.

But with all her prudence and forethought, Sister Angela had forgotten to mention to the young physician the fact of Beatrix's marriage. And looking at the girl so young and childish, no one would be surprised that the fact had escaped her memory. And Sister Angela never once, in her unworldliness, remembered the proneness of young men to fall in love, and that love comes when least expected, and is as speedy of growth, ofttimes, as was Jonah's gourd, and, alas! sometimes withers as soon.

Beautiful, ephemeral love! Well, without it, life would be dreary enough, and surely it is given to mortals as a foretaste of Paradise, only there love will live without "the immeasurable sadness which it too often has on earth."

Slowly Beatrix recovered. She felt no desire to live, for what was there to live for on earth? But as is so often the case when a sick person cares little for life, she grew daily stronger and better. Sister Angela was a devoted nurse, and Doctor Darrow seemed only to exist in Beatrix's presence, yet all that he knew of her history was that her name was Beatrix.

When at last she was able to sit up and amuse herself, one of the attendants brought her some magazines, wrapped in a copy of one of the daily papers—now a month old. Beatrix turned the paper over with listless fingers, and was about to lay it aside when her eyes fell upon a notice—the very advertisement which Keith had inserted. With wild, dilated eyes Beatrix read the advertisement to the end; then, with a low cry, she bowed her head upon her hands and burst into tears. There was the sound of a firm footstep; a moment later Douglas Darrow bent over her and took her wasted form in his arms.

"Beatrix, Beatrix!" he whispered, "look up and hear what I have to say. You must not shed tears, my beautiful darling! Oh, Beatrix, I love you so! Come to me, and be my wife. I can not live without you! I will shield you from all ill, and if suffering must come upon you, I will devote my life trying to alleviate your suffering. Tell me, Beatrix, will you try to care for me? I am twenty-eight years old, but I have never really loved any woman before; and I would lay down my life to call you mine. Answer me, darling; will you try to love me a little?"