known of methods of cure; but I have only the records of human ignorance
to learn from, and I must fail again and again."

At last, on the fourth night, Raby slept: slept for hours, quietly,
naturally, and with a gentle dew on his fair forehead. The doctor sat
motionless by his bed and watched him. Sally, exhausted by the long
watch, had fallen asleep on a lounge. The sound of Hetty's restless
steps, in the hall outside, had ceased for some time. The doctor sat
wondering uneasily where she had gone. She had not entered the room for
more than an hour; the house grew stiller and stiller; not a sound was
to be heard except little Raby's heavy breathing, and now and then one
of those fine and mysterious noises which the timbers of old houses have
a habit of making in the night-time. At last the lover got the better
of the physician. Doctor Eben rose, and, stealing softly to the door,
opened it as cautiously as a thief. All was dark.

"Hetty," he whispered. No answer. He looked back at Raby. The child was
sleeping so soundly it seemed impossible that he could wake for some
time. Doctor Eben groped his way to the head of the great stairway, and
listened again. All was still.

"Hetty!" he called in a low voice, "Hetty!" No answer.

"She must have fallen asleep somewhere. She will surely take cold," the
doctor said to himself; persuading his conscience that it was his duty
to go and find her. Slowly feeling his way, he crept down the staircase.
On the last step but one, he suddenly stumbled, fell, and barely
recovered himself by his firm hold of the banisters, in time to hear
Hetty's voice in a low imperious whisper: