A few days before Mr. Chillingworth's removal to the hospital, a very different patient had been taken thither, also sent in by Dr. Blanchard. This was poor Lizzie Mason, who had been taken ill during Nora's absence, and of whose illness Nora first heard from Miss Pomeroy, who had been specially active in looking after the "Girls' Club" while Miss Blanchard was on duty elsewhere. The story of Lizzie's illness was a sad one. The needs of the family had made her very anxious to earn a little more, if possible, and she had undertaken a kind of work that commanded higher wages on account of its inconvenience. It was that of spinning silk which had to be kept constantly wet by a spray of water, which, of course, kept the garments of the spinner more or less wet also. The obvious precaution of providing a water-proof suit, for this work, had not been deemed necessary by Mr. Willett; and Lizzie could not think of affording the outlay. So she worked on all day in damp clothes, running home afterwards, as quickly as she could, to exchange them. While the mild spring weather continued, no great harm resulted; but, as often happens in spring, it had suddenly become extremely raw and cold. Lizzie, leaving the overheated room in her damp clothing, had taken a chill, which in her weakened constitution had brought on a attack of pneumonia. Miss Pomeroy had been told of her illness, had gone to see her, and, by dint of cross-examination, had ascertained its origin. She went home in a white-heat of indignation, and told her mother the whole story, which, at first, Mrs. Pomeroy refused to believe. Yet when she was compelled to realize it, she suddenly burst into tears, for she was, after all, a good and well-meaning woman; and intermingled self-reproaches and self-defence in a most incoherent manner.

She wouldn't have believed Willett would have permitted such a thing—but how could she know anything about it? Only to think that such things should happen at her own door! She had been pitying the poor women on the other side of the globe, and here were girls in their own mill sacrificed like this! If she had only thought of looking into things a little more! Well, such a thing would never happen again, if she could help it!

"And, in the meantime, Clara," she said, "you will go to Doctor Blanchard, and ask him, for me, to see this poor girl at once, and to do the very best he can for her. And she must get everything she needs, or fancies, to set her up again."

The result of which was, that Lizzie, after much persuasion, consented to go to the hospital for care and treatment, one inducement being the promise that she should be placed in the room of her friend, Mrs. Travers, who had been doing her best to assist the tired nurses in the busy time that the great increase of sickness had brought upon them. It need scarcely be said that she at once became Lizzie's devoted attendant—scarcely relaxing her watch for a moment, till Lizzie was pronounced somewhat better, with a tolerable possibility of recovery.

It was well that she had improved before Mr. Chillingworth's arrival. When Miss Spencer had learned that his case was pronounced an extremely severe and dangerous one, she thought it only right to tell his wife, who, from that moment, seemed to have no thought but for him. Indeed, she begged so hard to be allowed to take a share in the constant attendance he required, that Miss Spencer arranged for her doing so, on the express condition that she should keep well out of his sight, till the issue of the attack should be determined. Mr. Chillingworth, indeed, was not likely to notice any one just then. He was very ill, indeed, and lay most of the time with closed eyes, in a state of great suffering and prostration. His wife's whole being seemed absorbed in watching him with intense anxiety, doing everything for him that it was possible for her to do without being observed by him, and evidently availing herself greedily of the opportunity of once more gazing on his face—so changed, in some respects, yet so familiar, and still to her so dear.

"That poor thing is a heroine in her way," said Dr. Blanchard, on his return from one of his visits. "I never knew greater devotion, and after such an experience!"

He was of the three or four people who had heard the sad story, and Nora had to depend on him for all her information about the invalids; for Mrs. Blanchard, nervously afraid of infection, would not hear of her going near the hospital, even to see Lizzie Mason.

"Poor thing," exclaimed Mrs. Blanchard, sympathetically; "well, she has her turn now! How oddly things seem to come round!"

"She took me by surprise to-day," Dr. Blanchard continued, "when I found him so ill that I thought there was no hope for him but in the last resort—trying to suck out the membraneous stuff with an instrument."

"Oh, Will," exclaimed his wife, "I can't bear to have you do such things! You have no right to risk your life in that way—and all our lives!"

"If I had done it, I should not have told you now. I've done it before. Don't you know, we doctors are all under orders to risk life when it's necessary? We couldn't do much, if we weren't ready for that. And I should be a degenerate descendant of the brave Blanchards who fought for freedom, if I couldn't face death as readily to save life, as they did to destroy it. However, I haven't told you yet what surprised me. Just as I was going to do it, this poor woman pressed forward, whispering—"Oh, let me! It's my place!"—in such an agonized way, that I had not the heart to refuse her. I saw it was a real comfort to her. I hardly know whether I was right or not, but I let her do it."

"Of course you were right!" Mrs. Blanchard said, much relieved. "It was her place, as she said. I should have felt just so!"

Nora said nothing; but as she silently listened, the tears started to her eyes, at the thought of the words, "Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much!"

Whether or not it was this "last resort" that saved the clergyman's life, he began from that time slightly to improve. The violence of the attack abated, leaving it possible for him to secure the soothing and strengthening rest he so much needed. And, at last, Miss Spencer, who had been watching with deep interest the course of events, told the poor shy watcher that she need not continue to practise such caution in avoiding recognition. It would not hurt him, now, she thought, and it might as well come soon as late. But it happened, after all, in a way entirely accidental and unpremeditated.

With the first light of morning, Mr. Chillingworth awoke, at length, from a long, restful sleep. He had no idea that his wife was in the hospital, for he had not, of course, felt sufficiently interested in Miss Blanchard's protÉgÉe, to keep track of her history. And, since the disclosure, he had not yet dared to ask any questions.

But very probably, some chance token of a once familiar presence may have stolen into his mind, even through the prostration of disease. It is curious, what slight touches will start the springs of old associations. Mr. Chillingworth, at any rate, had been dreaming a long pleasant dream of the old happy days of his youthful love and marriage, of wanderings in English lanes and saunterings in leafy garden-walks, always with one fair face and graceful figure by his side, that had then seemed to hold the whole charm of life for him. As he awoke, he had been, in his dream, looking down at the familiar upturned face, with its gaze of happy, trustful love.

It seemed to him, when he opened his eyes in the bare hospital room, that he must be dreaming still. For, in a low chair beside the bed, sat, with her head resting on it, in a quiet sleep that had stolen irresistibly over her—the very original of his dreams. In the soft light that penetrated through the drawn blinds, the traces left by years and suffering on the still lovely face were almost unperceived; the soft rings of dark hair curled low on the forehead just as he so well remembered them—lovely even in their slight disorder. And, even as he looked, the long lashes were raised, and the beautiful gray eyes were opened, in a shy, half-frightened, but fascinated gaze.

Mr. Chillingworth was just in that weak and helpless state, when—if ever in his life—a man yearns for the tender ministrations of a loving woman. Suffering and prostration had broken down the hard coldness of his nature, and it seemed as if he had become like a dependent child. The old love of the former days, stirred up by his vivid dream, seemed to thrill once more through his whole being, sweeping away all the barriers that years and circumstances had interposed. He feebly stretched out his arms, and by the irresistible impulse—strange influence that love can exert over the hardest will!—the long severed husband and wife were reunited in a close, instinctive, passionate embrace.