At this moment a young man pushed his way vigorously through a thick hedge of laurel, and, springing forward, intercepted the idiot. He stood before him in an authoritative manner, and made a strange little gesture. Evidently Edwy understood it. He came to a sudden standstill.

The new-comer was Dr. Dillwyn. He went up to the poor boy, and laid his hand upon his shoulder and made a sign or two to him with his fingers. Edwy let Agatha go, and the girl, sick and faint with the terror, fell back against a tree behind her.

The idiot caught Dillwyn by the shoulder, looking at him and mouthing beseechingly.

"Sho! Sho! Sho!" moaned he.

He had now, however, grown calmer, and presently his face regained its usual placid look. Dillwyn's appearance had had some extraordinary effect upon him. The terror disappeared from his eyes, and they were now fixed on the young doctor with the steady gaze of a dumb animal.

The poor idiot had learned in some blind way to like and believe in Dillwyn. In the same strange unreasoning fashion he had grown to like Agatha. These two he clung to of all those that surrounded him in his silent life. There was another, and that was "Sho," his mother. To him, however, she was light and life and all things. And she loved him. And now "Sho" was in danger— was lying there at home in a darkened room silent, without a look, a word for him, for the first time in all his blighted existence. It was to that darkened room he would have carried Agatha, some unformed thought of help for his mother stirring him.

Again Dillwyn made some signs, pointing towards the direction from which the unfortunate lad had come, and after a minute or two the idiot turned and shuffled rapidly away towards his home.

Dillwyn went towards Agatha. His face was as white as death. He caught her hand.

She felt that he was trembling even more than she was. He let her hand go, and it occurred to the girl that he made a step towards her with his arms a little outheld, as though he would have clasped her to his heart. Her late danger had perhaps made him bolder—for the moment. He could dare the strong idiot, but what man could dare his love?

"Don't be frightened," said he in a low tone. "He meant nothing. Nothing, really. But I thank God I arrived in time. You must have had a great shock."

"Yes, yes," said Agatha, who was trembling still. The tears rose to her eyes. "I am not really a coward," said she very bravely, "and at first I didn't mind. I bore it quite well; but he was so strong, and I didn't know where he was going, and"—with a shudder—"it was so horrid being rushed along like that." Here she covered her eyes with her hands and burst into tears. "Oh! now you will think me a coward," sobbed she like any child.

"I know what I think you, long ago," said Dillwyn.

"Let me tell you how it all was," said he; "and sit down while I tell you. You are quite unstrung, and no wonder. You are, in my opinion, the bravest girl I ever met."

"Oh no!" said she.

"The bravest girl I ever met," repeated he firmly. "Poor Edwy! Who would not be horrified by him in his excited moments? But the fact is, his mother has met with an accident, and is, I fear, at death's door."

"Mrs. Darkham!" Agatha roused herself from her nervous agitation and looked at him.

"Yes. She went out early this morning shopping in the town, and coming down that hilly part of the High Street she slipped on an orange-peel, and came with fearful force upon the flags. You know what a heavy woman she is?"

"Yes, yes. Poor thing!"

"She was taken home quite insensible. Darkham was out, but was sent for, and it appears it was some time before he returned. In the meantime poor Edwy had crept into the room where she was lying, and the servants told me the sight of the blood—she had cut the back of her head slightly—affected Edwy horribly. First he flew to her and then recoiled. They said he did not know her lying there so still.

"He went away, but came back again and flung himself upon her, and great, difficult tears fell from his eyes. I was there then, and so was the father. It was pitiful beyond words. I raised him and tried to calm him.

"He got up suddenly and ran round the bed to me. He took my arm and pointed to the door. I believe now he was trying to tell me that he was going to bring you to the succour of his mother."

"Poor, poor boy!" Agatha sighed quickly. "It is not hopeless, at all events?" questioned she.

"Who can say? Darkham thinks it is, and I—well, I have seen cases as bad recover. But that is nothing. It is undoubtedly a very bad case. She is a heavy woman, you know, and a fall like that—and concussion—I am going up there again this evening in consultation with Dr. Bland."

"Ah!" said Agatha quickly. There was relief in her tone. She could not have explained it to herself, but she was glad that so respectable a man as Dr. Bland had been called in for consultation.

Dillwyn looked at her questioningly.

"You thought it would be some other man?"

"Yes. But I am glad it is Dr. Bland. He—-"

"Is not so old as most of the old figure-heads in the county," said Dillwyn with a smile, who had suffered a good deal from the medical fossils in the surrounding neighbourhood since he came to Rickton. "Darkham sent for me first. I was the nearest, you know."

"Yes," said Agatha. "And the cleverest," she would have added had she dared to give her heart carte blanche.

"It was all very sad, and the poor boy so helpless. I am sure I am reading the riddle correctly when I say he ran to you to get you to come to his mother in her extremity—-"

"I wish I had gone," Agatha said quickly. She half rose. "Oh, perhaps I ought to go. Has she no woman with her?"

"She has two," said Dillwyn quietly. "You would be in the way if you went there now. Two nurses engaged by Darkham are in constant attendance on her. Don't distress yourself about that—and will you think of yourself a little now? If you won't, I shall think for you. You must go back to the house, and to your room, and try to sleep, if possible, for the next two or three hours."

"As for that!" said she—a faint laugh broke from her.

"You won't do what I tell you, then?" said he. He had taken her hand as if to draw it within his arm, but he held it now in his own whilst questioning her.

"To do what you tell me?" She reddened vividly.

"Yes; why not?" His tone was calm, but the hand clasping hers tightened its grasp. It was as though he could not let her go.

There was a pause. Agatha made an effort to draw her hand from his, but he held it manfully.

"Why shouldn't you do what is good for you?" asked he at last.

"And what is the good of a doctor if he can't suggest useful remedies? I am a doctor, and, therefore, why shouldn't you do what I tell you?"

"Oh, if you put it that way," said she.

"Then you are going to obey me?"

She gave him a little glance.

At this they both laughed. Agatha still a little nervously. She did not, however, resist him any further, and presently he had taken her back across the lawn and on to the balcony, where Mrs. Greatorex met them.

She had seen Dillwyn spring though the laurels, and had known Agatha was safe. She met him now with extended hand.

"Thank you a thousand times, Dr. Dillwyn," said she, "for your happy appearance on the scene a moment ago. I warned Agatha about that repulsive boy, but she would not listen to me. However, I am sure there was nothing really serious about it."

Her manner was kind, but reserved. She had noticed his attentions to Agatha, and was not yet sure whether they ought to be encouraged or rejected.

He was poor, and though Reginald Greatorex had, in a sense, placed him here, still, she knew that "old skinflint"—I regret that that was the name she applied to her brother-in-law in her private hours—was certainly not to be depended upon. This rather presumptuous young doctor would never get a penny out of Reginald Greatorex if he hoped for a thousand years. Had she not hoped?

And yet, though she assured herself Dillwyn had no chance of old Reginald's money, still, the very fact that he might have a chance rendered the young man distasteful in her eyes. A protege of Reginald's would always be a blur upon the landscape of her life.

"No, I think not," said Dillwyn; "yet your niece has certainly been subjected to a severe shock. That unfortunate boy was greatly disturbed in mind, and, as it appears, ran to Miss Nesbitt at once for comfort. He meant nothing beyond a desire to gain help for his mother, who is very ill."

"Mrs Darkham is ill?"

"Yes, seriously so."

"Good heavens! Nothing infectious, I hope? Oh, Agatha! And you have been with her son just now! My dear"—drawing herself back hurriedly—"had you not better go in and get disinfected? Sulphur is very good, and—-"

"I don't think you need be alarmed in this instance," said Dillwyn coldly; "concussion of the brain is not catching."

At this moment the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside could be heard, and a laugh—gay, sweet.