pillow, and opened his eyes. He looked around him with a puzzled,
angry look; his bound-up arm--his garments clotted with blood--the
confusion into which his room was thrown--the strange man watching by
his bedside--May resting on the old sofa--what meant it all? He tried
to call out, but could only whisper.

"What's all this? Have I been robbed? Who are _you_?"

"I hope you feel a great deal better, Mr. Stillinghast. You have been
quite ill, sir," said the doctor, soothingly. "I am Dr. Burrell; allow
me to feel your pulse."

"For what? I never was sick in my life. I never had my pulse felt,"
he said, doggedly.

"How does your head feel, sir?"

"My head! ah, my head feels shaky. Call _her_ here."

May was beside him in a moment, holding his hand, and looking down into
his white pinched features with commiseration.

"What's all this, child? Why are you here?"

"You have been very ill, dear uncle. You know you were poorly last
night. I felt uneasy about you, and sat up to listen if you should
call for any thing, until I heard you fall," said May, in a low, clear,
and distinct voice.

"Fall?"