The effect, though not miraculous, was remarkable. In less than an
hour she felt calmer, cooler, better able to reflect--less inclined to
fret and chafe and wear herself away. She took a few drops more. From
that time the fever retreated, and went out like a damped conflagration.

"How clever he is!" she said, regretfully. "Why could he not have had
more principle, so as to turn his great talents to good account?
Perhaps he has saved my useless life. But he doesn't know it, and
doesn't care whether he has saved it or not; and on that account will
never be told by me! Probably he only gave it to me in the arrogance of
his skill, to show the greatness of his resources beside mine, as
Elijah drew down fire from heaven."

As soon as she had quite recovered from this foiled attack upon her
life, Grace went to Marty South's cottage. The current of her being
had again set towards the lost Giles Winterborne.

"Marty," she said, "we both loved him. We will go to his grave
together."

Great Hintock church stood at the upper part of the village, and could
be reached without passing through the street. In the dusk of the late
September day they went thither by secret ways, walking mostly in
silence side by side, each busied with her own thoughts. Grace had a
trouble exceeding Marty's--that haunting sense of having put out the
light of his life by her own hasty doings. She had tried to persuade
herself that he might have died of his illness, even if she had not
taken possession of his house. Sometimes she succeeded in her attempt;
sometimes she did not.