IS
SHOULDER."]

"Now do be keerful, miss," urged July, keeping Anne's mule back.
"I'll jes' go and peer roun' a bit. But you stay hyar with Di."

"Yes, miss," said Diana. "We'll go back in de woods a piece, and wait.
July'll fin' out all about 'em."

Whether willingly or unwillingly, Anne was obliged to yield; the two
women rode back into the woods, and July stole away cautiously upon his
errand.

It was ten o'clock before he returned; Anne had dismounted, and was
walking impatiently to and fro in the warm darkness.

"Found 'em, miss," said July. "But it's cl'ar 'cross de valley.
Howsomever, valley's safe, dey say, and you can ride right along ober."

"Was it Mr. Heathcote?" said Anne, as the mules trotted down a
cross-road and over a bridge, July keeping up with a long loping run.

"Yes, miss; Heathcote's de name. I saw him, and moughty sick he looked."

"What did he say?"

"Fever's in him head, miss, and didn't say nothing. Senses clean done
gone."

Anne had not thought of this, it changed her task at once. He would not
know her; she could do all that was necessary in safety, and then go
unrecognized away. "What will he say?" she had asked herself a thousand
times. Now, he would say nothing, and all would be simple and easy.

"Dis yere's de place," said July, pausing.

It was a low farm-house with a slanting roof; there was a light in the
window, and the door stood open. Anne, springing from her saddle, and
followed by Diana, hastened up the little garden path. At first there
seemed to be no one in the room into which the house door opened; then a
slight sound behind a curtain in one corner attracted her attention, and
going across, she drew aside the drapery. The head moving restlessly to
and fro on the pillow, with closed eyes and drawn mouth, was that of
Ward Heathcote.

She spoke his name; the eyes opened and rested upon her, but there was
no recognition in the glance.

"Bless you! his senses has been gone for days," said the farmer's wife,
coming up behind her and looking at her patient impartially. "He don't
know nobody no more'n a day-old baby!"

CHAPTER XXV.

"Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or tends with the remover to remove:
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.