"You were unconscious for a time," said the Rector. "But I hope that you feel better now."

She gave him a curious look--whether of shame or of reproach he could not tell--then buried her face in the pillows and began to cry quietly, with her fingers before her eyes.

"My dear Miss Vane, can I not do anything for you? I will call the housekeeper," said the Rector, driven almost to desperation by the sight of her tears. It was always very painful to him to see a woman cry.

"No, no!" she said, raising her head for a moment. "No--don't call any one, please; I shall be better directly. I know what was the matter now."

She dried her eyes and tried to calm herself, while the Rector stood by the table in the middle of the room, nervously turning over books and pamphlets, and pretending not to see that she was crying still.

"Mr. Evandale," she said at length, "I don't know how to thank you for being so kind. I must tell you----"

"Don't tell me anything that is painful to you, Miss Vane."

"It will not be painful to tell you after your great kindness to me.

I--I am subject to these attacks. The doctors say that they do not exactly understand the case, but they think that I shall outgrow them in course of time. I have not had one for six months till to-night." She burst into tears again.

"But, my dear child,"--he could not help saying it--the words slipped from his lips against his will--"there is nothing to be so troubled about; a little faintness now and then--many people suffer from it."

"Ah, you do not understand!" she said quickly. "It is not faintness at all. I am often quite conscious all the time. I remember now how you found me and brought me here. I was not insensible all the time, but I cannot move or speak when I am like that. It has been so ever since--ever since my father died." She lowered her voice, as if she were telling something that was terrible to her.

"I see," said Mr. Evandale kindly--"it is an affection of the nerves, which you will get over when you are stronger. I hope that you do not make a trouble of that?" His eyes looked steadily into hers, and he noted with pain the strange shadow that crossed them as he gazed.

"My uncle and his wife," she murmured, "will not let anybody know. They are--they are ashamed of it, and of me. If I do not get better, they say that I shall some day go out of my mind. Oh, it is terrible--terrible to feel a doom of this sort hanging over one, and to know that nothing can avert it! I had hoped that it was all over--that I should not have another attack; but you see--you see that I hoped in vain! It is like a black shadow always hanging over me, and nothing--nothing will ever take it away!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

For a moment even the stout-hearted Rector was appalled. But Enid, although she was watching him intently, could not read anything but unfaltering sympathy and ready cheer in the glance that he gave her and the words that rose almost immediately to his tongue.

"Courage! Doctors are very often wrong," he said. "Besides, I do not see why such an ending should be feared, even if there were any constitutional tendency of the kind in your family, which there is not."

"No," said Enid, less timidly than before; "I believe there is not. I have asked."

"Your attacks are only nervous, my dear Miss Vane. The very fact of your having--foolishly, I think--been, told the doctor's theories has made it less possible for you to strive against the malady; and yet you say that it has not made progress lately. You have not been ill in this way for six months?"

"No, not for six months."

"Don't you see that the excitement and fatigue of to-day's expedition, and the sad scene which we have just witnessed, would be likely to increase any ailment of the nervous system? You must not argue anything from what has happened to-day. Forgive me," the Rector broke off to say, with a smile--"I am talking like a doctor to you, and my medical skill is small indeed. It is only large enough to enable me to assure you, Miss Vane, of my conviction that your fears are ungrounded, and that you are tormenting yourself to no purpose. Will you try to take my advice and turn your thoughts away from this unhappy subject?"

"I will try," answered Enid, with rather a bewildered look. "But," she added a moment later, "I thought that I ought to be always on my guard; and one cannot be on one's guard without thinking about the matter."

"Who told you that you ought to be always on your guard?"

"Flossy--I mean Mrs. Vane. She is very kind, and watches me constantly.

Oh, I forgot," said the girl, starting to her feet, and clasping her hands before her with a look of wretched nervous terror which went to the Rector's heart--"I forgot--I forgot----"

"What did you forget?" said Evandale, wondering for a moment whether her mind was not unhinged by all that she had passed through that afternoon.

Then, touched by her evident distress, he went on more lightly, "I have been forgetting that you will be missed from the Hall by this time, and that the whole country-side will be out after you if we do not go back at once. I will send for a carriage and drive down with you, if you will allow me."

Enid sank back on the sofa and assented listlessly. Mr. Evandale left the room, and sent in his absence a comfortable-looking old housekeeper with wine and biscuits, offers of tea and coffee, and all sorts of medicaments suitable to a young lady who had been faint and unwell--as was only to be expected after witnessing the death of Mrs. Meldreth, that troublesome old person having expired quite suddenly that afternoon when Miss Vane and Mr. Evandale were both at her bedside. Enid was not inclined to accept any of Mrs. Heale's attentions, but, out of sheer dislike to hurting her feelings, she at last accepted a cup of tea, and was glad of the reviving warmth which it brought to her cold and tired limbs. And then Mr. Evandale returned.

"There is no carriage at the inn," he said; "and I am sorry to say, Miss Vane, that I do not possess one that would suit you--I have only a high dog-cart and a kicking mare; so I have taken the liberty of sending down to the Hall and telling Mrs. Vane that you are here; and she will no doubt send a carriage for you. I wrote a little note to her--it was the best thing, I thought, that I could do."

"Yes," said Enid, almost inaudibly. Then she leaned back and closed her eyes, looking as if she felt sick and faint.

Mrs. Heale glided away, in obedience to a nod from her master, and the Rector was once more alone with Enid Vane.

"I hope," he said, with a slight hesitation, which was rather graceful in a man of his commanding stature and singular loftiness of bearing--"I hope, Miss Vane, you will not think that I have been intrusive when I tell you that I entreated Sabina Meldreth to confess anything that might weigh upon her conscience, as her mother had confessed to you."

A great wave of crimson suddenly passed over Enid's pallid cheeks and brow. She raised a pair of startled eyes to the Rector's' face, and then said quickly--

"Did she tell you?"

"No, Miss Vane, she did not."

"Then will you promise me," said Enid, with sudden earnestness, "never to ask her again?"

"How can I do that? It may be my duty to ask her for her soul's sake; you would be the last to counsel me to be silent then."

"Oh, but you do not understand! I know now--I know what is weighing on Sabina Meldreth's mind; and I have forgiven her."

"It was a wrong done to you?"

"Yes--to me."

"And to no one else?" Enid's head drooped.

"I don't know--I can't tell. I must think it over."

"Yes--think and pray," said the Rector gravely but tenderly; "and remember that truth should always prevail."

"I know--I believe it; but it would do more harm than good."

"Miss Vane, if I am indiscreet, I trust you will pardon me. If by any chance this confession has reference to the death of your father, Mr.

Sydney Vane, it is your duty to make it known, at any cost to your own feelings."

The girl looked up with an expression of relief.

"It does not bear on that subject at all, Mr. Evandale."

"I am glad. You will forgive me for alluding to it? A wild fancy crossed my mind that it had something to do with that."

"I shall never forget your kindness," said Enid gratefully.

"And if you are in perplexity--in any trouble--will you trust me to do all for you that is in my power? If you ever want help, you will remember that I am ready--ready for all--all that you might require----"