him
but his faithful, ignorant servant, who was as much afraid of the
fever as any one else could be, but who, nevertheless, would not
leave his master--his master who had saved his life as a child, and
afterwards put him in the stables at Bellingham Hall, where he learnt
all that he knew. He stood in a farther corner of the room, watching
his delirious master with affrighted eyes, not daring to come near
him, nor yet willing to leave him.

"Oh! if that doctor would but come! He'll kill himself or me--and
them stupid servants won't stir a step over the threshold; how shall
I get over the night? Blessings on him--here's the old doctor back
again! I hear him creaking and scolding up the stairs!"

The door opened, and Mr Davis entered, followed by Ruth.

"Here's the nurse, my good man--such a nurse as there is not in the
three counties. Now, all you'll have to do is to mind what she says."

"Oh, sir! he's mortal bad! won't you stay with us through the night,
sir?"

"Look there!" whispered Mr Davis to the man, "see how she knows how
to manage him! Why, I could not do it better myself!"

She had gone up to the wild, raging figure, and with soft authority
had made him lie down: and then, placing a basin of cold water by the
bedside, she had dipped in it her pretty hands, and was laying their
cool dampness on his hot brow, speaking in a low soothing voice all
the time, in a way that acted like a charm in hushing his mad talk.

"But I will stay," said the doctor, after he had examined his
patient; "as much on her account as his! and partly to quieten the
fears of this poor, faithful fellow."

CHAPTER XXXV

Out of Darkness into Light

The third night after this was to be the crisis--the turning-point
between Life and Death. Mr Davis came again to pass it by the bedside
of the sufferer. Ruth was there, constant and still, intent upon
watching the symptoms, and acting according to them, in obedience
to Mr Davis's directions. She had never left the room. Every sense
had been strained in watching--every power of thought or judgment
had been kept on the full stretch. Now that Mr Davis came and took
her place, and that the room was quiet for the night, she became
oppressed with heaviness, which yet did not tend to sleep. She could
not remember the present time, or where she was. All times of her
earliest youth--the days of her childhood--were in her memory with a
minuteness and fulness of detail which was miserab