"I was thinking, Oliver, that--if you don't mind--as we can have Phillis, I would leave it to Molly whether to come back tomorrow night, or not. If her mother is really growing worse, the girl may like to stay a day longer with her." "My dear, do just as you like about it," was the doctor's rather impatient answer. "Your breakfast shall be ready in a moment, Oliver." "I have taken breakfast. It was between eight and nine before I could get away from Ketler's, and I went and begged some of Mrs. Gass. After that I went the round of the patients." Bessy was putting the crust into the basin. She lifted her hands and turned in some dismay. "Surely, Oliver, they have not got the fever at Ketler's!" Dr. Rane laughed slightly. "Not the fever, Bessy: something else. The baby. It was Ketler who called me up this morning." "Oh dear," said Bessy, going on with her pudding. "I thought that poor baby was not expected for a month or two. How will they manage to keep it? It seems to me that the less food there is for them, the quicker the babies come." "That's generally the case," observed Dr. Rane. "Is the mother well?" "Tolerably so." "And--how are the other things going on, Oliver?" He knew, by the tone of her voice, that she meant the fever. Bessy never spoke of that without a kind of timidity. "Neither better nor worse. It's very bad still." "And fatal?" "Yes, and fatal. Henry Hepburn is in danger." "But he will get over it?" rejoined Bessy quickly. "I don't think so. His brother will have it next if he does not mind. He is as nervous over it as he can be. I am off now, Bessy, up the Ham." "You will be in to dinner?" "Before that, I hope." Bessy settled to her pudding again, and the doctor departed. Not into danger this time, for the fever had not yet shown itself in Dallory Ham. Scarcely a minute had elapsed when the door-bell rang, and Molly went to answer it. Mrs. Rane, her hands all flour, peeped from the kitchen, and saw Mr. North. "Oh papa! How glad I am to see you! Do you mind coming in here?" Mind! Mr. North felt far more at home in Bessy's kitchen than in his wife's grand drawing-room. He had brought a small open basket of lovely hot-house flowers for Bessy. He put it on the table, and sat down on one of the wooden chairs in peace and comfort. Richard had not returned, and he was still alone. "Go on with your pudding, my dear. Don't mind me. I like to see it." "It's all but done, papa. Molly will tie it up. Oh, these beautiful flowers!" she added, bending down to them. "How kind of you to think of me!" "I'm going to Ham Court about some seeds, child; the walk will do me good, this pleasant day. I feel stronger and better, Bessy, than I did." "I am so glad of that, papa." "And so I thought--as I intended to call in here--that I would cut a few blossoms, and bring them with me. How's the fever getting on, Bessy?" "It is not any better, I am afraid, papa." "So I hear. They say that Henry Hepburn's dying."