hat he could not visit her took possession of
Grace, and she looked up anxiously for the lantern, which was hanging
above her head. To light it and go in the direction of the sound would
be the obvious way to solve the dread problem; but the conditions made
her hesitate, and in a moment a cold sweat pervaded her at further
sounds from the same quarter.

They were low mutterings; at first like persons in conversation, but
gradually resolving themselves into varieties of one voice. It was an
endless monologue, like that we sometimes hear from inanimate nature in
deep secret places where water flows, or where ivy leaves flap against
stones; but by degrees she was convinced that the voice was
Winterborne's. Yet who could be his listener, so mute and patient; for
though he argued so rapidly and persistently, nobody replied.

A dreadful enlightenment spread through the mind of Grace. "Oh," she
cried, in her anguish, as she hastily prepared herself to go out, "how
selfishly correct I am always--too, too correct! Cruel propriety is
killing the dearest heart that ever woman clasped to her own."

While speaking thus to herself she had lit the lantern, and hastening
out without further thought, took the direction whence the mutterings
had proceeded. The course was marked by a little path, which ended at
a distance of about forty yards in a small erection of hurdles, not
much larger than a shock of corn, such as were frequent in the woods
and copses when the cutting season was going on. It was too slight
even to be called a hovel, and was not high enough to stand upright in;
appearing, in short, to be erected for the temporary shelter of fuel.
The side towards Grace was open, and turning the light upon the
interior, she beheld what her prescient fear had pictured in snatches
all the way thither.

Upon the straw within, Winterborne lay in his clothes, just as she had
seen him during the whole of her stay here, except that his hat was
off, and his hair matted and wild.

Both his clothes and the straw were saturated with rain. His arms were
flung over his head; his face was flushed to an unnatural crimson. His
eyes had a burning brightness, and though they met her own, she
perceived that he did not recognize her.

"Oh, my Giles," she cried, "what have I done to you!"

But she stopped no longer even to reproach herself. She saw that the
first thing to be thought of was to get him indoors.

How Grace performed that labo