to the house, but to the inn. She was in high fever, and soon
delirious. By noon, Aunt Rosamund and Mrs. Markey, summoned by telegram,
had arrived; and the whole inn was taken lest there should be any noise
to disturb her.

At five o'clock, Winton was summoned downstairs to the little so-called
reading-room. A tall woman was standing at the window, shading her eyes
with the back of a gloved hand. Though they had lived so long within ten
miles of each other he only knew Lady Summerhay by sight, and he waited
for the poor woman to speak first. She said in a low voice:

"There is nothing to say; only, I thought I must see you. How is she?"

"Delirious."

They stood in silence a full minute, before she whispered:

"My poor boy! Did you see him--his forehead?" Her lips quivered. "I
will take him back home." And tears rolled, one after the other, slowly
down her flushed face under her veil. Poor woman! Poor woman! She had
turned to the window, passing her handkerchief up under the veil, staring
out at the little strip of darkening lawn, and Winton, too, stared out
into that mournful daylight. At last, he said:

"I will send you all his things, except--except anything that might help
my poor girl."

She turned quickly.

"And so it's ended like this! Major Winton, is there anything
behind--were they really happy?"

Winton looked straight at her and answered:

"Ah, too happy!"

Without a quiver, he met those tear-darkened, dilated eyes straining at
his; with a heavy sigh, she once more turned away, and, brushing her
handkerchief across her face, drew down her veil.

It was not true--he knew from the mutterings of Gyp's fever--but no one,
not even Summerhay's mother, should hear a whisper if he could help it.
At the door, he murmured:

"I don't know whether my girl will get through, or what she will do
after. When Fate hits, she hits too hard. And you! Good-bye."

Lady Summerhay pressed his outstretched hand.

"Good-bye," she said, in a strangled voice. "I wish you--good-bye."
Then, turning abruptly, she hastened away.

Winton went back to his guardianship upstairs.

In the days that followed, when Gyp, robbed of memory, hung between life
and death, Winton hardly left her room, that low room with creepered
windows whence the river could be seen, gliding down under the pale
November sunshine or black beneath the stars. He would watch it,
fascinated, as one sometimes watches the relentless se