Lucy stood and wrung her hands, looking round helplessly, almost terrified out of her senses by Leslie's terrible outburst of passionate grief. But her helplessness lasted only for a moment or two. She bent down and shook, literally shook, Leslie's shoulder.

"He is not dead!" she said, "but he will be if we let him lie here!"

She had hit upon the surest way of rousing Leslie. She stopped the awful wailing, held Yorke's face from her and looked at it—oh, with what a scrutiny!—then sprang to her feet.

"Help me!" she said through her clenched teeth, and she put her arms around Yorke's broad shoulders, and raised him from the ground. She felt strong enough to carry him by herself! Between them they carried him into the house and into Lucy's room.

"Now I will go for the doctor," said Leslie, with a calmness which terrified Lucy almost as much as her grief had done, but Lucy snatched up her shawl.

"No, I will go! You must stay with him! You—you will not break down, Leslie?"

A smile crossed Leslie's white face; and, sufficiently answered, Lucy sped away.

When she came back with the doctor they found that Leslie had—heaven only knows how—got off Yorke's saturated coat and waistcoat, and washed the blood from his face; and she stood outside the door holding Lucy's hand, calm and composed, while the doctor made his examination. Then he called them in.

"No bones broken, thank God!" he said; "the horse must have fallen on him, and I was afraid——. But he has struck his head, and there is mischief in a blow like this. He will want careful nursing." He looked from one to the other, and Leslie moved forward a little. The doctor nodded. "Very good," he said, as if accepting her; and he began at once to give her the necessary instructions. "When he comes to he must be kept quiet."

Ralph, who had been fetched by the doctor's man, entered the room, and the doctor sent him into the village for some things he required; on the way Ralph roused the postmaster and sent a telegram to the Duke of Rothbury.

The two girls and the doctor watched beside Yorke throughout the morning, but he still lay motionless and apparently lifeless.

The doctor's face grew graver as the hours passed, and he drew Ralph aside.

"Better send for his friends," he said; "I had hoped to bring him round before this; there is Lady Eleanor Dallas——."

Ralph started. He and the rest of them had forgotten her.

He got on Yorke's horse, and rode full pelt for White Place.

"Their ladyships left by the first train this morning for the Continent, sir," said the butler; "Paris, I think, but I'm not sure; I was to wait till they sent their address."

Ralph rode back and whispered the result of his message to Lucy; she looked relieved.

"I—I am not sorry!" she said. "If she had come Leslie would have gone, perhaps! No, I am not sorry! Oh, Ralph, if he should die!"

In the afternoon a fly drove up to the door and Grey helped the duke out. He was as white as the face that lay on the pillow upstairs, and for a moment or two he could not speak, but sat with lightly folded hands listening as Ralph told the whole strange story.

"Take me to him," he said at last.

They took him upstairs, and he started at sight of Leslie beside the bed; then he held out his hand, and Leslie put hers into it without a word; indeed, almost indifferently and without removing her eyes from Yorke's face. For her all the world lay there, hovering between life and death!

He stood watching Yorke for some time, then he went downstairs again.

"Will he live?" he asked the doctor.

The doctor gave the usual shake of the head and shrug.

"It is a difficult case, your grace," he said vaguely.

The duke put his hand before his eyes for a moment or two. "If he should die it will kill her!" He had been watching Leslie's face as well as Yorke's.

Two days passed. A stillness like that of death itself reigned over the little house. Toward evening Lucy implored Leslie to go to her room and take some rest.

"And leave him?" was the only response, and she held the limp hand still more tightly. The night fell and Leslie had sunk on her knees with her face on the dear hand, praying silently, when she felt the hand against her cheek move. She raised her head and motioned to Lucy and the doctor and they drew back.

The hand moved again, and presently the thrill that was almost an agony in its intensity, ran warm through Leslie's heart, for she saw the eyes she had watched hour by hour open slowly.

There was no life or intelligence in them for a minute or so, but Leslie bent over him and whispered his name. They lighted up, and a smile flickered on his face and his lips moved.

She bent still lower and heard him—surely no other could have caught those faint accents!—whisper her name.

"Yes, it is—Leslie!" she said.

He smiled again, and his fingers closed over hers weakly and yet clingingly.

"That's—that's right, my darling!" he said. "I knew you'd come! I've driven Stevens at the club half wild about that telegram; but I'll—I'll give him a five-pound note. Leslie——."

"Yes," she murmured.

"I've got the certificate, license, whatever you call it, and we'll be married to-day——."

Her face flushed and the tears blinded her.

"I'm too busy now to tell you how I love you for trusting me, dearest, but I'll tell you after its all over. The snuggest little church! I've got everything read—Where's a cab—Where——."

He stopped and a shudder ran through him, and the expression of his face changed swiftly.

"Leslie!" he cried, in a voice of grief and dread. "Where are you? I have lost you! Lost you; Leslie, come back to me! Oh, God, she has gone, gone forever! Come back to me, dearest, dearest!"

The doctor stepped forward hurriedly with a grave anxiety in his manner; but Leslie motioned him back.

She put her arm round Yorke and laid her face against his—her own scarlet and white by turns—and in a voice inaudible to the rest, whispered:

"I am here, dear Yorke! Don't you know—have you forgotten? It is I, Leslie—your wife!"

He looked puzzled for a moment, then a smile broke over his face and he laughed as he turned his face to her.

"I—I must have been dreaming, Leslie!" he said joyfully. "Yes, that's it! What an idiot I am! I forgot we were married yesterday! Think of it! Where are we? On the steamer—in Italy—where? My—my head feels queer, and the things work about me. Just—just tell me again, dearest."

"It is Leslie—your wife," she murmured, her love telling her what he wanted.

"Yes, yes!" he murmured, with a laugh of infinite content. "Married yesterday, of course; stupid things, dreams. Leslie! My wife! Married yesterday!"

Then with a sigh of blissful assurance and perfect peace he closed his eyes and fell asleep on her bosom.

Lucy stood crying, the tears were rolling down the duke's wan cheeks, and even the doctor found it necessary to turn his head away.

Then Lucy found herself outside the room sobbing on Ralph Duncombe's shoulder.

"Oh, I am so happy, so happy!" she sobbed. "It is all right now!"

"All right?" he said with masculine density.

"Yes, don't you see? Didn't you hear!" opening her eyes. "She is bound to marry him now! Why, it's almost as if they were married already."