mother, and the aid of Kit himself. His only regret in regard to the
matter was in having to leave the Marchioness alone and unprotected in
the hands of the Brasses, and little did he dream that to the small
servant herself, to the Marchioness, rather than to him, Kit and his
mother were to owe their heaviest debt of gratitude--but it was so
to be.

That very night Mr. Richard was seized with an alarming illness, and in
twenty-four hours was stricken with a raging fever, and lay tossing upon
his hot, uneasy bed, unconscious of anything but weariness and worry and
pain, until at length he sank into a deep sleep. He awoke, and with a
sensation of blissful rest better than sleep itself, began to dimly
remember, and to think what a long night it had been, and to wonder
whether he had not been delirious once or twice. Still, he felt
indifferent and happy, and having no curiosity to pursue the subject,
remained in a waking slumber until his attention was attracted by a
cough. This made him doubt whether he had locked his door last night,
and feel a little surprised at having a companion in the room. But he
lacked energy to follow up this train of thought, and in a luxury of
repose, lay staring at some green stripes on the bed furniture, and
associating them strangely, with patches of fresh turf, while the
yellow ground between made gravel walks, and so helped out a long
perspective of trim gardens.

He was rambling in imagination on these terraces, when he heard the
cough once more. Raising himself a little in the bed, he looked
about him.

The same room, certainly, but with what unbounded astonishment did he
see bottles, and basins, and articles of linen airing by the fire--all