upon her, until the chain of evidence was complete, she laid her head upon the rain-wet grass, and shudderingly stopped her ears, to shut out, if possible, the memory of the dreadful words, “I, the shriveled, skinny hag who tells you this, am your own grandmother.”  For a long time she lay there thus, weeping till the fountain of her tears seemed dry; then, weary, faint, and sick, she started for her home.  Opening cautiously the outer door, she was gliding up the stairs when Madam Conway, entering the hall with a lamp, discovered her, and uttered an exclamation of surprise at the strangeness of her appearance.  Her dress, bedraggled and wet, was torn in several places by the briery bushes she had passed; her hair, loosened from its confinement, hung down her back, while her face was so white and ghastly that Madam Conway in much alarm followed her up the stairs, asking what had happened.

“Something dreadful came to me in the woods,” said Maggie; “but I can’t tell you to-night.  To-morrow I shall be better—­or dead—­oh, I wish I could be dead—­before you hate me so, dear grand—­No, I didn’t mean that—­you aint; forgive me, do;” and sinking to the floor she kissed the very hem of Madam Conway’s dress.

Unable to understand what she meant, Madam Conway divested her of her damp clothing, and, placing her in bed, sat down beside her, saying gently, “Can you tell me now what frightened you?”

A faint cry was Maggie’s only answer, and taking the lady’s hand she laid it upon her forehead, where the drops of perspiration were standing thickly.  All night long Madam Conway sat by her, going once to communicate with Arthur Carrollton, who, anxious and alarmed, came often to the door, asking if she slept.  She did sleep at last—­a fitful feverish sleep; but ever at the sound of Mr. Carrollton’s voice a spasm of pain distorted her features, and a low moan came from her lips.  Maggie had been terribly excited, and when next morning she awoke she was parched with burning fever, while her mind at intervals seemed wandering; and ere two days passed she was raving with delirium, brought on, the physician said, by some sudden shock, the nature of which no one could even guess.

For three weeks she hovered between life and death, whispering oft of the horrid shape which had met her in the woods, robbing her of happiness and life.  Winding her feeble arms around Madam Conway’s neck, she would beg of her most piteously not to cast her off—­not to send her away from the only home she had ever known—­“For I couldn’t help it,” she would say.  “I didn’t know it, and I’ve loved you all so much—­so much!  Say, grandma, may I call you grandma all the same?  Will you love poor Maggie a little?” and Madam Conway, listening to words whose meaning she could not fathom, would answer by laying the aching head upon her bosom, and trying to soothe the excited girl.  Theo, too, was summoned home, but at her Maggie at first refused to look, and, covering her eyes with her hand, she whispered scornfully, “Pinched, and blue, and pale; that’s the very look.  I couldn’t see it when I called you sister.”