nse of unreality. Mr. Sandys took a very optimistic view of
Maud's case; he assured Howard that he had seen the same thing a dozen
times; she had great reserves of strength, he believed; it was but
nature insisting upon rest and quiet. His talk became a sort of relief
to Howard, because he refused to admit any possibility of ultimate
disaster. No tragedy could keep Mr. Sandys silent; and Howard began to
be aware that the Vicar must have thought out a series of topics to
talk to him about, and even prepared the line of conversation
beforehand. Jack had been sent for at the crisis, but when the imminent
danger lessened, Howard suggested that he should go back to Cambridge,
in which Jack gratefully acquiesced.

One day Mrs. Graves came suddenly in upon Howard, as he sate drearily
trying to write some letters, and said, "There is a great improvement
this morning. I went in to see her, and she has come back to herself;
she mentioned your name, and the doctor says you can see her for a few
minutes; she must not talk, but she is herself. You may just come and
sit by her for a few minutes; it will be best to come at once."

Howard got up, and was seized by a sudden giddiness. He grasped his
chair, and was aware that Mrs. Graves was looking at him anxiously.

"Can you manage it, dear boy?" she said. "You have had a great strain."

"Manage it?" said Howard, "why, it's new life. I shall be all right in
a moment. Does she know what has happened?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Graves, "she knows all--it is you she is anxious
about--she isn't thinking of herself at all."

Howard followed his aunt out of the room, feeling suddenly alert and
strong. They entered the room; as they did so, Maud turned and looked
at him--the faintest tinge of colour had returned to her face; she held
out her hands to him, and let them fall again. Howard stepped quickly
to the side of the bed, dropped on his knees, and took his wife in his
arms. She nestled close to him for a moment, and then looked at him
with a smile--then speaking in a very low voice, almost a whisper, she
said:

"Yes, I know--you will help me, dearest; yes, I have come back to
you--I have been wandering far away, with the child--you know--he
wanted me, I think; but I have left him somewhere, safe, and I am sent
back--I didn't think I could come back, but I had to choose; I have
chosen . . ." her voice died away, and she looked long and anxiously at
him. "You are not well," she said; "it is