Rand "good-night," and hurried off to the cabin.

And so a week passed by,--the week so dreaded by Rand, yet passed so
pleasantly, that at times it seemed as if that dread were only a trick
of his fancy, or as if the circumstances that surrounded him were
different from what he believed them to be. On the seventh day the
doctor had staid longer than usual; and Rand, who had been sitting with
Euphemia on the ledge by the shaft, watching the sunset, had barely
time to withdraw his hand from hers, as Mrs. Sol, a trifle pale and
wearied-looking, approached him.

"I don't like to trouble you," she said,--indeed, they had seldom
troubled him with the details of Mornie's convalescence, or even her
needs and requirements,--"but the doctor is alarmed about Mornie, and
she has asked to see you. I think you'd better go in and speak to her.
You know," continued Mrs. Sol delicately, "you haven't been in there
since the night she was taken sick, and maybe a new face might do her
good."

The guilty blood flew to Rand's face as he stammered, "I thought I'd be
in the way. I didn't believe she cared much to see me. Is she worse?"

"The doctor is looking very anxious," said Mrs. Sol simply.

The blood returned from Rand's face, and settled around his heart. He
turned very pale. He had consoled himself always for his complicity
in Ruth's absence, that he was taking good care of Mornie, or--what
is considered by most selfish natures an equivalent--permitting or
encouraging some one else to "take good care of her;" but here was
a contingency utterly unforeseen. It did not occur to him that this