ught.

This little conversation was presently cut short by Mrs. Lamprey's
arrival at her destination, a roadside inn where she had an aunt by
marriage.

* * * * *

Ruth Thrale had a bad report to give as she and her young ladyship
recrossed the kitchen. It was summed up in the word Fever, restrained by
"Not exactly delirium." Granny Marrable came out to meet them, and threw
in a word or two of additional restraint. What they had at first thought
delirium had turned out quite temperate and sane on closer examination.

"A deal about Australia, and the black witch-doctor," said Granny
Marrable. "Now, if one could turn her mind off that, it might be best
for her, and she would drop off, quiet." Perhaps her ladyship coming
would do her good. The old lady ended with concession about the
fever--was not quite sure Maisie had known her just now when she spoke
to her.

"Poor old darling!" said Gwen. "You know, Granny, we must expect a
little of this sort of thing. We couldn't hope to get off scot-free.
Have you had some sleep, yourself? Has she slept, Ruth?"

"Oh yes. Mother got some sleep in the chair beside--beside _her_, till
four o'clock. Then she lay down, and had a good sleep, lying down.
Didn't you, mother?"

"You may be easy about me, child. I've done very well."

"And yourself, Ruth?" By now, Gwen always called Widow Thrale "Ruth."

"Who--I? I had quite a long sleep, while mother sat by--by _her_." This
dreadful difficulty of what to call old Maisie! Her daughter was always
at odds with it.

Gwen passed on into the bedroom. Just at the door she paused. "You wait
outside, and hear," said she. They held back, in the passage, silent.

Old Maisie's voice, on the pillow; audible, not articulate. Two frail
hands stretched out in welcome. Two grave eyes, made wild by the
surrounding tangle of loose white hair. Those were Gwen's impressions as
she approached the bed.

The voice grew articulate. "Oh, my darling, I knew you would come. I
want you close, to tell me...."

"Yes, dear!--to tell you what?"

"I want you to tell me whether one of the things is a dream."

"One of which things, dear?" One has to be a hard old stager not to feel
his flesh creep at delirium. Gwen had to fight against a shudder.

"There are so many, you know, now that they all come back at once. Tell
me, darling, were my little boy and girl real, who came up into my room
and played and gave me tea out of smal