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 arms and neck, the trembling chainlet of gold circling her throat, and quivering on her breast, glistened strangely amid the obscurity of the sickroom. Her mien was chastened and pensive: she spoke gently.

"Mr. Moore, how are you to-night?"

"I have not been very ill, and am now better."

"I heard that you complained of thirst: I have brought you some grapes: can you taste one?"

"No: but I thank you for remembering me."

"Just one."

From the rich cluster that filled a small basket held in her hand, she severed a berry and offered it to his lips. He shook his head and turned aside his flushed face.

"But what then can I bring you instead? You have no wish for fruit; yet I see that your lips are parched. What beverage do you prefer?"

"Mrs. Gill supplies me with toast and water: I like it best."

Silence fell for some minutes.

"Do you suffer? Have you pain?"

"Very little."

"What made you ill?"

Silence.

"I wonder what caused this fever? To what do you attribute it?"

"Miasma perhaps—malaria. This is autumn, a season fertile in fevers."

"I hear you often visit the sick in Briarfield, and