er exposed, standing on the step of the carriage, while he pulled them
up; and it was Jervis's fault, the footman said, who was not clever
enough to get her lady out, or even to throw a shawl round her when she
perceived how the weather had changed. It is always some one's fault, or
some unforeseen, unprecedented change, that does it at the last. Lady
Mary was not accustomed to be ill, and did not bear it with her usual
grace. She was a little impatient at first, and thought they were making
an unnecessary fuss. But then there passed a few uncomfortable feverish
days, when she began to look forward to the doctor's visit as the only
thing there was any comfort in. Afterwards she passed a night of a very
agitating kind. She dozed and dreamed, and awoke and dreamed again. Her
life seemed all to run into dreams,--a strange confusion was about her,
through which she could define nothing. Once waking up, as she supposed,
she saw a group round her bed, the doctor,--with a candle in his hand,
(how should the doctor be there in the middle of the night?) holding her
hand or feeling her pulse; little Mary at one side, crying,--why should
the child cry?--and Jervis, very, anxious, pouring something into a
glass. There were other faces there which she was sure must have come out
of a dream,--so unlikely was it that they should be collected in her
bedchamber,--and all with a sort of halo of feverish light about them; a
magnified and mysterious importance. This strange scene, which she did
not understand, seemed to make itself visible all in a moment out of the
darkness, and then disappeared again as suddenly as it came.

III.

When she woke again, it was morning; and her first waking consciousness
was, that she must be much better. The choking sensation in her throat
was altogether gone. She had no desire to cough--no difficulty in
breathing. She had a fancy, however, that she must be still dreaming,
for she felt sure that some one had called her by her name, "Mary."
Now all who could call her by her Christian name were dead years ago;
therefore it must be a dream. However, in a short time it was
repeated,--"Mary, Mary! get up; there is a great deal to do." This voice
confused her greatly. Was it possible that all that was past had been
mere fancy, that she had but dreamed those long, long years,--maturity
and motherhood, and trouble and triumph, and old age at the end of all?
It seemed to her possible that she might have dre