It was but a step to the door of the neighbouring house. But the distance, though short, steadied the girl’s mind and enabled her to taste that infinity of the night, that immensity of nature, which, like a fathomless ocean, islands the littleness of our lighted homes. The groaning of strained cordage, the creaking of timbers, the far-off rattle of a boom came off the dark water that lipped the wharves which still fringe three sides of the Square. Here and there a rare gas-lamp, lately set up, disclosed the half-bare arms of trees, or some vague opening leading to the Welsh Back. But for all the two could see, as they glided from the one door to the other, the busy city about them, seething with so many passions, pregnant with so much danger, hiding in its entrails the love, the fear, the secrets of a myriad lives, might have been in another planet. Mary owned the calming influence of the night and the stars, and before the door opened to Miss Sibson’s knock, the blush had faded from her cheek. It was with solemn thoughts that she went up the wide oaken staircase, still handsome, though dusty and fallen from its high estate. The task before her, the scene on the threshold of which she trod, brought the purest instincts of her nature into play. But her guide knocked, someone within the room bade them enter, and Mary advanced. She saw lights and a bed—a four-poster, heavily curtained. And half blinded by her tears, she glided towards the bed—or was gliding, when a querulous voice arrested her midway. “So you are come!” it said. And Lady Sybil, who, robed in a silken dressing-gown, was lying on a small couch in a different part of the room, tossed a book, not too gently, to the floor. “What stuff! What stuff!” she ejaculated wearily. “A schoolgirl might write as good! Well, you are come,” she continued. “There,” as Mary, flung back on herself, bent timidly and kissed her, “that will do! That will do! I can’t bear anyone near me! Don’t come too near me! Sit on that chair, where I can see you!” Mary beat back her tears and obeyed with a quivering lip. “I hope you are better,” she said. “Better!” her mother retorted in the same peevish tone. “No, and shall not be!” Then, with a shrill scream, “Heavens, child, what have you got on?” she continued. “What have you done to yourself? You look like a _sœur de Charité!_” “I thought that I could nurse you better in this,” Mary faltered. “Nurse me!” “Yes, I——”