And still there is some good in her--some sense of right and wrong, as
was shown by a strange thing which happened when Guy was at the worst of
the terrible fever which followed his coming home. I watched him day and
night, I would not even let Julia Hamilton share my vigils, and one
night when I was worn out with fatigue and anxiety I fell asleep upon
the lounge, where I threw myself for a moment. How long I slept I never
knew, but it must have been an hour or more, for the last thing I
remember was hearing the whistle of the Western train and the sighing of
the wind, which sounded like rain, and when I awoke the rain was falling
heavily and the clock was striking twelve, which was an hour after the
train was due. It was very quiet in the room, and darker than usual, for
someone had shaded the lamp from my eyes as well as Guy's so that at
first I did not see distinctly, but I had an impression that there was a
figure sitting by Guy near the bed. Julia, most likely, I thought, and I
called her by name, feeling my blood curdle in my veins and my heart
stand still with something like fear when a voice I knew so well and
never expected to hear again, answered softly:

"It is not Julia. It's me!"

There was no faltering in her voice, no sound of apology. She spoke like
one who had a right there, and this it was which angered me and made me
lose my self-command. Starting to my feet, I confronted her where she
sat in my chair, by Guy's bedside, with those queer blue eyes of hers
fixed so questioningly upon me as if she wondered at my impertinence.

"Miss McDonald," I said, laying great stress on the name, "why are you
here, and how did you dare come?"

"I was almost afraid, it was so dark when I left the train, and it kept