"Mam'zelle," I said, "I am going away to-night. You will be sorry to
lose me?"

"Very, very sorry," she answered, in her low, touching voice. "Are you
obliged to go?"

If I had not been obliged to go, I should then and there have made a
solemn vow to remain with her till she was well again.

"I must go," I said, shaking off the ridiculous and troublesome idea. "I
have been away nearly six days. Six days is a long holiday for a
doctor."

"It has not been a holiday for you," she whispered, her eyes fastened
upon mine, and shining like clear stars.

"Well," I repeated, "I must go. Before I go I wish to write to your
friends for you. You will not be strong enough to write yourself for
some days, and it is quite time they knew what danger you have been in.
I have brought a pen and paper, and I will post the letter as soon as I
reach Guernsey."

A faint flush colored her face, and she turned her eyes away from me.

"Why do you think I ought to write?" she asked at length.

"Because you have been very near death." I answered. "If you had died,
not one of us would have known whom to communicate with, unless you had
left some direction in that box of yours, which is not very likely."