“Sit down by Mr. Kirkwood’s side,” said the doctor.  “He wants to thank you, if he has strength to do it, for saving him from the death which seemed inevitable.”

Not many words could Maurice command.  He was weak enough for womanly tears, but their fountains no longer flowed; it was with him as with the dying, whose eyes may light up, but rarely shed a tear.

The river which has found a new channel widens and deepens—­it; it lets the old water-course fill up, and never returns to its forsaken bed.  The tyrannous habit was broken.  The prophecy of the gitana had verified itself, and the ill a fair woman had wrought a fairer woman bad conquered and abolished.

The history of Maurice Kirkwood loses its exceptional character from the time of his restoration to his natural conditions.  His convalescence was very slow and gradual, but no further accident interrupted its even progress.  The season was over, the summer visitors had left Arrowhead Village; the chrysanthemums were going out of flower, the frosts had come, and Maurice was still beneath the roof of the kind physician.  The relation between him and his preserver was so entirely apart from all common acquaintances and friendships that no ordinary rules could apply to it.  Euthymia visited him often during the period of his extreme prostration.

“You must come every day,” the doctor said.  “He gains with every visit you make him; he pines if you miss him for a single day.”  So she came and sat by him, the doctor or good Mrs. Butts keeping her company in his presence.  He grew stronger,—­began to sit up in bed; and at last Euthymia found him dressed as in health, and beginning to walk about the room.  She was startled.  She had thought of herself as a kind of nurse, but the young gentleman could hardly be said to need a nurse any longer.  She had scruples about making any further visits.  She asked Lurida what she thought about it.

“Think about it?” said Lurida.  “Why should n’t you go to see a brother as well as a sister, I should like to know?  If you are afraid to go to see Maurice Kirkwood, I am not afraid, at any rate.  If you would rather have me go than go yourself, I will do it, and let people talk just as much as they want to.  Shall I go instead of you?”

Euthymia was not quite sure that this would be the best thing for the patient.  The doctor had told her he thought there were special reasons for her own course in coming daily to see him.  “I am afraid,” she said, “you are too bright to be safe for him in his weak state.  Your mind is such a stimulating one, you know.  A dull sort of person like myself is better for him just now.  I will continue visiting him as long as the doctor says it is important that I should; but you must defend me, Lurida,—­I know you can explain it all so that people will not blame me.”

Euthymia knew full well what the effect of Lurida’s penetrating head-voice would be in a convalescent’s chamber.  She knew how that active mind of hers would set the young man’s thoughts at work, when what he wanted was rest of every faculty.  Were not these good and sufficient reasons for her decision?  What others could there be?