That night I could not sleep, and when on receiving my mail the next morning I found that it contained no line from Fred, my anxiety could no longer be kept within bounds, and I determined that, come what might, another day should not pass without my seeing May Derwent. I left the hospital as soon as I decently could, but, even so, it was almost one o’clock before I was once more on my way to Beverley. On arriving there, I found to my disgust that there were no cabs at the station. An obliging countryman offered to “hitch up a team,” but I declined, thinking it would be quicker to walk than to wait for it, as the Derwents’ house was hardly a mile off. A delicious breeze had sprung up and was blowing new life into me, and I should have enjoyed my walk except for the fact that, as my visit must necessarily be a very short one, I begrudged every minute spent away from May Derwent. I was, therefore, trudging along at a great rate, entirely absorbed in reaching my destination in the shortest possible time, when I was surprised to perceive in the distance a woman running rapidly towards me. As there was neither man nor beast in sight, I wondered at the reason of her haste. A sudden illness? A fire? As the flying figure drew nearer, I was dismayed to recognize May Derwent. I rushed forward to meet her, and a moment later she lay panting and trembling in my arms. As I looked down and saw her fair head lying on my breast I felt as if I were having a foretaste of heaven. I was recalled to earth by feeling her slight form shudder convulsively and by hearing an occasional frightened sob.

“What has happened, May? What has frightened you?” I feared that she would resent this use of her Christian name, but she evidently did not notice it, for she only clung the tighter to me.

Mrs. Derwent, whose approach I had been watching, here joined us, hot and out of breath from her unwonted exertion. Her indignation at finding May in the arms of a comparative stranger was such that she dragged her daughter quite roughly from me.

“You must really calm yourself, May,” she commanded, with more severity than I had thought her capable of.

But the poor child only continued to tremble and cry. As it seemed a hopeless undertaking to try and quiet her, Mrs. Derwent and I each took her by an arm and between us we assisted her home. As we were nearing it, I saw Norman hurrying towards us.

“What’s the matter?” he inquired, anxiously.

As May had grown gradually more composed, her mother felt she could now leave her to my care, and, joining Norman, they walked briskly ahead, an arrangement which I don’t think that young man at all relished.

My darling and I strolled slowly on, she leaning confidingly on me, and I was well content.

“You are not frightened, now?” I asked.

She raised her beautiful eyes for an instant to mine.

“No,” she murmured; and all I could see of her averted face was one small crimson ear.

“I hope you will never be afraid when I am with you,” I said, pressing her arm gently to my side. She did not withdraw from me, only hung her head lower, so I went on bravely.

“These last forty-four hours have been the longest and most intolerable of my life!”

She elevated her eyebrows, and I thought I perceived a faint smile hovering around her lips.

“Indeed!”

“I hope you got some flowers I sent you yesterday?”

“Yes. Didn’t you receive my note thanking you for them? They were very beautiful!”

I loudly anathematised the post which had delayed so important a message.

This time there was no doubt about it—and a roguish smile was parting her lips. This emboldened me to ask: “Were these roses as good as the first lot? I got them at a different place.”

“Oh, did you send those also? There was no card with them.”

“I purposely omitted to enclose one, as I feared you might consider that I was presuming on our slight acquaintance. Besides, I doubted whether you would remember me or had even caught my name.”

“I had not.”

There was a pause.

“Oh, what must you have thought of me! What must you think of me!” she exclaimed, in tones of deep distress, trying to draw her arm away. But I held her fast.

“Believe me, I entertain for you the greatest respect and admiration. I should never dream of criticising anything you do or might have done.”

She shot a grateful glance at me, and seeing we were unobserved I ventured to raise her small gloved hand reverently to my lips. She blushed again, but did not repulse me.

On arriving at the house, I insisted on her lying down, and, hoping the quiet would do her good, we left her alone. On leaving the room, we passed Norman pacing up and down outside, like a faithful dog. He did not offer to join us, but remained at his post.

I had not questioned May as to the cause of her fright, fearing to excite her, but I was none the less anxious to know what had occurred. Luckily, Mrs. Derwent was as eager to enlighten me as I was to learn.

“You know, Doctor Fortescue, how I have tried lately to keep everything away from my daughter which could possibly agitate her. However, when she suggested that she would like to walk to the village I gladly acquiesced, never dreaming that on a quiet country road anything could occur to frighten her, nervous as she was. With the exception of last Sunday, this was the first time since her return from New York that she had been willing to go outside the gate; therefore I was especially glad she should have this little change. I offered to accompany her or rather them (for Mr. Norman, of course, joined us), and we all three started off together. When we had gone some distance from the house, Mr. Norman remembered an important letter which he had left on his writing-table and which he was most anxious should catch the mid-day mail. So he turned back to get it. I noticed at the time that May appeared very reluctant to have him go. I even thought that she was on the point of asking him not to leave her, but I was glad to see that she controlled herself, for her horror of being separated from that young man has seemed to me not only silly, but very compromising. So we walked on alone, but very slowly, so that he could easily overtake us. The road was pretty, the day heavenly, and my shaken spirits were lighter than they had been for some time.” Mrs. Derwent paused a moment to wipe her eyes. “Did you happen to notice,” she continued, “that clump of bushes near the bend of the road?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, just as we were passing those I caught sight of a horrid-looking tramp, lying on his back, half hidden by the undergrowth. May was sauntering along swinging her parasol, which she had not opened, as our whole way had lain in the shade. She evidently did not see the fellow, but I watched him get up and follow us on the other side of the bushes. I was a little frightened, but before I could decide what I had better do he had approached May and said something to her which I was unable to catch. It must have been something very dreadful, for she uttered a piercing shriek, and turning on him like a young tigress hit him several times violently over the head with her sunshade. Dropping everything, she fled from the scene. You know the rest.”

The last words were spoken a trifle austerely, and I saw that Mrs. Derwent had not forgotten the position in which she had found her daughter, although she probably considered that that position was entirely due to May’s hysterical condition and that I had been an innocent factor in the situation.

“What became of the tramp?” I inquired, eagerly. “I saw no one following your daughter.”

“He did not do so. I stood for a moment watching her tear down the road, and when again I remembered the man I found he had disappeared.”

“Would you know the fellow, if you saw him again?”

“Certainly! He was an unusually repulsive specimen of his tribe.”

As Mrs. Derwent had failed to recognise him, the man could not have been her son, as I had for a moment feared.

“By the way, Doctor, May is still bent on going to New York.”

“Well, perhaps it is advisable that she should do so.”

“But why?”

“The quiet of the country does not seem to be doing her much good, does it? Let us, therefore, try the excitement of New York, and see what effect that will have. Besides, I am very anxious to have Miss Derwent see some great nerve specialist. I am still a very young practitioner, and I confess her case baffles me.”

“I see that you fear that she is insane!” cried Mrs. Derwent.

“Indeed, I do not,” I assured her, “but I think her nerves are very seriously out of order. If she goes on like this, she will soon be in a bad way. If you wish me to do so, I will find out what specialist I can most easily get hold of, and make arrangements for his seeing your daughter with as little delay as possible.”

“Thank you.”

My time was now almost up, so I asked to see my patient again, so as to assure myself that she was none the worse for her fright.

I found her with her eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling, and, from time to time, her body would still twitch convulsively. However, she welcomed us with a smile, and her pulse was decidedly stronger. It was a terrible trial to me to see that lovely girl lying there, and to feel that, so far, I had been powerless to help her. I thought that, perhaps, if she talked of her recent adventure it would prevent her brooding over it. So, after sympathising with her in a general way, I asked what the tramp had said to terrify her so much. She shook her head feebly.

“I could not make out what he was saying.”

I glanced upwards, and caught a look of horror on her mother’s face.

“Oh, indeed,” I said; “it was just his sudden appearance which frightened you so much?”

“Yes,” she answered, wearily. “Oh, I wish I could go to New York,” she sighed.

“I have just persuaded your mother to spend a few days there.”

She glanced quickly from one to the other.

“Really?”

Mrs. Derwent nodded a tearful assent.

“And when are we going?” she demanded.

“To-morrow, if you are well enough.”

“Oh! thank you.”

“But what will you do with your guest?”

“Mr. Norman? Oh, he will come, too;” but she had the grace to look apologetic.

Once outside the room, Mrs. Derwent beckoned me into her boudoir.

“Well, Doctor Fortescue,” she exclaimed, “what do you think of that? May turns on a harmless beggar, who has done nothing to annoy her, and beats him! She is not at all ashamed of her behaviour, either.”

“I confess, Mrs. Derwent, I am surprised.”

“Oh, she must be crazy,” wailed the poor lady.

“No, madam—simply hysterical—I am sure of it. Still, this makes me more than ever wishful to have another opinion about her case.”

Before we parted, it had been decided that the choice of suitable rooms should be left to me.

Back again in New York, I went immediately in search of them. I was so difficult to satisfy that it was some time before I selected a suite overlooking the Park, which seemed to me to answer all demands.

May and her mother were not expected till the following afternoon, so I tried to kill the intervening time by making the place look homelike, and I succeeded, I think. Masses of flowers and palms filled every nook, and the newest magazines and books lay on the tables.

I met the ladies at the station, where they parted from Norman, whom I had begun to regard as inevitable. It was, therefore, with a feeling of exultation that I drove alone with them to their hotel.

When May saw the bower I had prepared for her she seemed really pleased, and thanked me very prettily.

I left them, after a few minutes, but not until they had promised to dine with me at a restaurant that evening.