CHAPTER XXII.
AFTER THE CROSS, THE CROWN.
The glare of a brilliant April sunset shone in the rainbow-hued western sky, and on the fresh, green earth, all arrayed in the budding promise of spring.
Grace Danton stood by the window of a long, low room, looking thoughtfully out at the orange and crimson dyes of the far-off sky.
The room in which she stood was not at all like the vast old-fashioned rooms of Danton Hall.

It was long and narrow, and low-ceilinged, and very plainly furnished.

There was the bed in the centre, a low, curtainless bed, and on it, pale, thin, and shadowy, lay Grace's brother, as he had lain for many weary weeks.

He was asleep now, deeply, heavily, tossing no longer in the wild delirium of brain-fever, as he had tossed for so many interminable days and nights.
Grace dropped the curtain, and went back to her post by the bedside.

As she did so, the door softly opened, and Kate, in a dark, unrustling dress and slippers of silence, came in.