o send at once for Doctor Hendon.
Grace, you will remain in your room till I come to you."

Grace tried to rise in obedience; but the sick girl grasped her dress,
and held it tight. "Don't leave me," she said, in a hardly audible
whisper.

"You don't want me, you poor thing!" said Grace; and though she spoke
low, her tone was very bitter. "Let me go, and you shall never see me
again. Don't trouble about me, Miss Russell. I'll pack my trunk, and be
off in the morning before any one is awake."

"You will do as I tell you," said Miss Russell, quietly. "Peggy, go
quickly! Now, my poor child, let me take your hand. Move softly, Grace,
and I think you can slip away."

Grace tried once more to loosen the hold of the cramped, skinny hand,
but Lobelia only clutched the tighter; and now, in her delirium, she
caught Grace's hand with her other one, and held it tight, tight. "Don't
leave me!" she muttered. "Peggy, Peggy, don't leave me!"

Upon this, Grace looked up at Miss Russell; the hard, defiant look was
gone, the wild blue eyes were swimming in tears. "Let me stay," she
murmured. "Miss Russell, let me stay with her. I'll go away after she
gets well. She thinks I am Peggy, and you know I am a good nurse. Let
me stay and take care of her, and I will bless you all my life, even if
I never see you again."

"You shall stay," said Miss Russell. "My poor Grace, this may be the
hardest and heaviest punishment I could give you. You shall stay, and
see what your cruel and wilful carelessness has brought to pass. God
help us and you!"

CHAPTER XVII.

WAITING.

In the dreadful days that followed, Grace Wolfe hardly left the sick
girl's side. The doctor came, and pronounced the trouble a brain fever,
brought on by fear and worry. A trained nurse came and took charge.
Lobelia submitted to her care, but her one conscious instinct was that
of clinging to Grace. Whether, as seemed most probable, she took her for
Peggy, or whether she simply felt and craved the magnetism of the wild
girl's touch and presence, they could not tell; but she was never quiet
save when Grace's hand was resting on her. Her aunt came, her sole
living relative; and seeing her, poor Lobelia was explained. Prim,
fussy, and forbidding, her rich dress showing the same utter
tastelessness that marked that of her niece, Miss Parkins was not the
woman one would have chosen to be the mother of a girl like Lobelia. She
looked at the sick girl, and said it was