The Salt Of The Earth by Fred M. White

Adela sat up in bed, and gazed around her. The room was strange, and yet irritatingly familiar. She knew the bed and the hangings, recognised the wall decorations and the blinds. Surely those were some of her own things, but there was a spaciousness about the room which she had never noticed before. In the old days it had been absurdly crowded with luxurious and costly trifles, and as she took in the details, she felt how much more pleasing and more refined her surroundings were. Beyond doubt, she was in her own room in her cottage at Maidenhead.

How was she there and how long had she been ill? Gradually the memory of the recent past returned. It was all coming back to her now. The last thing she recollected was being seated in the dining-room of her flat, and she had a sort of hazy notion that the Duchess of Southampton had played some part in her sudden collapse. Was that a day or two ago, or was it a month? At any rate, the strange confusion of mind was gone, and she could see clearly and think freshly. A glorious sunshine filtered through the blinds, and the birds were calling in the gardens. But though her mind was collected and calm, and recollection was easy, she was aware of bodily weakness when she tried to rise. Then the movement as of one walking with extreme quietness attracted her, and the Duchess disclosed herself.