‘I smelt the honeysuckles in the glen this summer morning,’ she said, ‘as I stood at the counting-house window.’

Strange words like these from pallid lips pierce a loving listener’s heart more poignantly than steel. They sound romantic, perhaps, in books; in real life they are harrowing.

‘My darling, do you know me?’ said Mrs. Pryor.

‘I went in to call Robert to breakfast. I have been with him in the garden; he asked me to go. A heavy dew has refreshed the flowers; the peaches are ripening.’

‘My darling! my darling!’ again and again repeated the nurse.

‘I thought it was daylight—long after sunrise; it looks dark. Is the moon now set?’

That moon, lately risen, was gazing full and mild upon her; floating in deep blue space, it watched her unclouded.

‘Then it is not morning? I am not at the cottage? Who is this?—I see a shape at my bedside.’

‘It is myself; it is your friend—your nurse—your— Lean your head on my shoulder—collect yourself.’ In a lower tone: ‘O God, take pity! Give her life and me strength! Send me courage, teach me words!’

Some minutes passed in silence. The patient lay mute and passive in the trembling arms, on the throbbing bosom of the nurse.

‘I am better now,’ whispered Caroline at last, ‘much better. I feel where I am. This is Mrs. Pryor near me. I was dreaming—I talk when I wake up from dreams: people often do in illness. How fast your heart beats, ma’am! Do not be afraid.’

‘It is not fear, child, only a little anxiety, which will pass. I have brought you some tea, Cary—your uncle made it himself. You know he says he can make a better cup of tea than any housewife can. Taste it. He is concerned to hear that you eat so little. He would be glad if you had a better appetite.’

‘I am thirsty—let me drink.’

She drank eagerly.

‘What o’clock is it, ma’am?’ she asked.

‘Past nine.’

‘Not later? Oh! I have yet a long night before me. But the tea has made me strong. I will sit up.’

Mrs. Pryor raised her, and arranged her pillows.

‘Thank Heaven, I am not always equally miserable, and ill, and hopeless. The afternoon has been bad since Hortense went; perhaps the evening may be better. It is a fine night, I think? The moon shines clear.’

‘Very fine—a perfect summer night. The old church tower gleams white almost as silver.’

‘And does the churchyard look peaceful?’

‘Yes, and the garden also. Dew glistens on the foliage.’

‘Can you see many long weeds and nettles amongst the graves, or do they look turfy and flowery?’