On the visitors’ day Oswald went back again to the hospital, and found out there exactly the length of time that the visitors were allowed to stay. She would remain to the last, he felt sure, to comfort the little patient. And his plan was successful. At the last moment, when the doors were almost closing, she came running through the great hall, apologising to the porter for being so late, the ladyhood of her light figure and soft step showing very distinctly after the crowd of good, honest, anxious women, mothers or wives of the patients, who had come out before her. Agnes was by herself, for the ‘House’ was not far off, and her dress was a sufficient protection to her. It was not a protection, however, against Oswald, who came eagerly up with a pretence of being just too late to inquire, which delighted himself as the cleverest expedient. ‘How is she?’ he asked quite anxiously, and Agnes gave her report with the greatest gravity. The little girl was making quite satisfactory progress. She was very well cared for, and quite comfortable, though she had cried when her visitor left her. ‘That was not so wonderful,’ Agnes said seriously, ‘for I was like a sight of home to her, you know.’ ‘I don’t think it was at all wonderful,’ said Oswald, with equal gravity. ‘Had it been me I should have cried too.’ She looked at him suspiciously, with rising colour; but Oswald looked innocence itself. He went on quietly walking by her side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘Are your pupils all orphans,’ he asked, ‘or are others received?’ with the air of a philanthropist who had troops of poor children to dispose of. This was what Agnes thought, and the ‘House’ was in want of funds, as where is the ‘House’ that is not? She answered with some eagerness: ‘I think if they have lost one parent--I know we have widows’ children; and they are very glad if kind people will send children to be paid for,’ she said. ‘But perhaps that was not what you meant?’ ‘I have not got any children to send; but I should like to subscribe to such an excellent institution. Charities are often so unsatisfactory,’ he said in his most solemn tone, with a gravity which was sublime. ‘Yes. I suppose so,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I do not know very much about charities, but I am sure the Sisters would be very glad; they have more to do than they have money for, I know. They are always wanting to do more.’ ‘I suppose I might send my offering,’ said Oswald clumsily, ‘to Sister Mary Jane?’ Then he paused, perceiving a further advantage. ‘If you will kindly show me where the convent is, I will see her at once.’