But when I came home, I could no longer conceal from myself that I was in danger of a return of my last attack. I had been sitting for hours in wet clothes, with my boots full of water, and now I had to suffer for it. But as I was not to blame in the matter, and had no choice offered me whether I should be wet or dry while I sat by the dying woman, I felt no depression at the prospect of the coming illness. Indeed, I was too much depressed from other causes, from mental strife and hopelessness, to care much whether I was well or ill. I could have welcomed death in the mood in which I sometimes felt myself during the next few days, when I was unable to leave my bed, and knew that Captain Everard was at the Hall, and knew nothing besides. For no voice reached me from that quarter any more than if Oldcastle Hall had been a region beyond the grave. Miss Oldcastle seemed to have vanished from my ken as much as Catherine Weir and Mrs Tomkins—yes, more—for there was only death between these and me; whereas, there was something far worse—I could not always tell what—that rose ever between Miss Oldcastle and myself, and paralysed any effort I might fancy myself on the point of making for her rescue. One pleasant thing happened. On the Thursday, I think it was, I felt better. My sister came into my room and said that Miss Crowther had called, and wanted to see me. “Which Miss Crowther is it?” I asked. “The little lady that looks like a bird, and chirps when she talks.” Of course I was no longer in any doubt as to which of them it was. “You told her I had a bad cold, did you not?” “Oh, yes. But she says if it is only a cold, it will do you no harm to see her.” “But you told her I was in bed, didn’t you?” “Of course. But it makes no difference. She says she’s used to seeing sick folk in bed; and if you don’t mind seeing her, she doesn’t mind seeing you.” “Well, I suppose I must see her,” I said. So my sister made me a little tidier, and introduced Miss Crowther. “O dear Mr Walton, I am SO sorry! But you’re not very ill, are you?” “I hope not, Miss Jemima. Indeed, I begin to think this morning that I am going to get off easier than I expected.” “I am glad of that. Now listen to me. I won’t keep you, and it is a matter of some importance. I hear that one of your people is dead, a young woman of the name of Weir, who has left a little boy behind her. Now, I have been wanting for a long time to adopt a child——” “But,” I interrupted her, “What would Miss Hester say?”