I waited to hear no more; I knew what I had to do.  By what means it was conveyed to me I cannot tell; but the certainty of an influence which no one thought of calmed me in the midst of my fever.  I went out into the hall, where I had seen the young stranger waiting.  I went up to her and touched her on the shoulder.  She rose at once, with a little movement of alarm, yet with docile and instant obedience, as if she had expected the summons.  I made her take off her veil and her bonnet, scarcely looking at her, scarcely seeing her, knowing how it was:  I took her soft, small, cool, yet trembling hand into mine; it was so soft and cool,—­not cold,—­it refreshed me with its tremulous touch.  All through I moved and spoke like a man in a dream; swiftly, noiselessly, all the complications of waking life removed; without embarrassment, without reflection, without the loss of a moment.  My father was still standing up, leaning a little forward as he had done when I withdrew; threatening, yet terror-stricken, not knowing what I might be about to do, when I returned with my companion.  That was the one thing he had not thought of.  He was entirely undecided, unprepared.  He gave her one look, flung up his arms above his head, and uttered a distracted cry, so wild that it seemed the last outcry of nature,—­“Agnes!” then fell back like a sudden ruin, upon himself, into his chair.

I had no leisure to think how he was, or whether he could hear what I said.  I had my message to deliver.  “Father,” I said, laboring with my panting breath, “it is for this that heaven has opened, and one whom I never saw, one whom I know not, has taken possession of me.  Had we been less earthly, we should have seen her—­herself, and not merely her image.  I have not even known what she meant.  I have been as a fool without understanding.  This is the third time I have come to you with her message, without knowing what to say.  But now I have found it out.  This is her message.  I have found it out at last.”  There was an awful pause,—­a pause in which no one moved or breathed.  Then there came a broken voice out of my father’s chair.  He had not understood, though I think he heard what I said.  He put out two feeble hands.  “Phil—­I think I am dying—­has she—­has she come for me?” he said.

We had to carry him to his bed.  What struggles he had gone through before I cannot tell.  He had stood fast, and had refused to be moved, and now he fell,—­like an old tower, like an old tree.  The necessity there was for thinking of him saved me from the physical consequences which had prostrated me on a former occasion.  I had no leisure now for any consciousness of how matters went with myself.