Babs slept peacefully in her cot at the other end of the room. The white and blue violets lay in a tiny bowl on the little table by Judy's bed. The rumble of wheels was heard in the avenue. Aunt Marjorie started to her feet, and the color flew from Judy's face. "It cannot be Hilda yet," exclaimed the aunt. "No, of course, it is the doctor. He will say that you are better to-night, Judy." The medical man entered the room, felt the pulse of his little patient, looked into her eyes, and gave utterance to a few cheerful words. "The child is much better, isn't she?" asked Aunt Marjorie, following him out of the room. "Hum! I am not so sure; her pulse is weak and quick, and for some reason she is extremely excited. What is she sitting up in bed for? she ought to have been in the land of dreams a long time ago." "Don't you know, Dr. Harvey; didn't we tell you, my niece, Mrs. Quentyns, is expected to-night? and Judy is sitting up to see her." "Suspense is very bad for my little patient. What time is Mrs. Quentyns expected to arrive?" "About ten. Judy is especially attached to her sister, and if I had insisted on her trying to go to sleep, she would have tossed about and worked herself into a fever." "She is very nearly in one now, and I don't particularly like the look of excitement in her eyes. I hope Mrs. Quentyns will be punctual. As soon as ever she comes, the child must settle to sleep. Give her a dose of that bromide mixture immediately after. I'll come and see her the first thing in the morning." CHAPTER XI. HUSBAND AND WIFE. But she is far away Now; nor the hours of night, grown hoar, Bring, yet to me, long gazing, from the door, The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray, And rose-cream of the hour that leads the day, When we shall meet once more. --D. G. ROSSETTI. Hilda Quentyns, Judy's idol, was not the strongest of characters. She was very sweet and amiable, intensely true and affectionate to those to whom she gave her heart, but she was somewhat timorous and somewhat easily led. Long ago, when Babs was a baby, Hilda's mother had died. Since then Judy had been her special care. Now with trembling hands she packed her portmanteau, gave the young cook and parlor-maid directions what to do in her absence, and then sitting down before her davenport, prepared to write an explanatory letter to her husband. She thought it quite probable that Jasper would be angry with her for rushing off like this, but for once she intended to brave his displeasure. In her heart of hearts she knew exactly the state Judy was in. The ardent soul was wearing out the delicate little frame. That suffering which Judy would not speak of, which she was too brave to show sign or whisper of, was making her body ill. If Hilda went to her darling, the suffering would cease. Love would shine all round Judy's starved heart, and she would soon be well and strong again.