Mrs. Asquith turned upon him with a gasp, having lost all power of speech: and then the self-control of misery gave way. She dropped into the nearest chair, and saved her brain and relieved her heart by tears. “May I trust you?” she asked piteously, with her quivering lips; “Hetty, my child--is in no danger?” as soon as she was able to speak. “None that I can discover; but she is in a very alarming state. She has had a fright. It seems to have paralysed her whole being. I hope everything from your sudden appearance.” “Paralysed!” “I don’t mean in the ordinary sense of the word--turned her to stone, I should say. Oh, Mrs. Asquith, I fear you will think we have ill discharged the trust you gave us. Your daughter has been frightened out of her senses, out of herself.” Mary had risen from her seat to go to her Hetty; she stared at him for a moment, and dropped feebly back again. “Do you mean that my child--my child is--mad?” she said with horror, clasping her hands. “Oh, no, no!” cried the young doctor. “Her mind, I hope, may not be touched. She is in a state I can’t explain. She takes no notice of anything. I thought it was catalepsy at first. You will be more frightened when you see her than perhaps there is any need for being----” “Doctor--if you are the doctor--take me to her, take me to her! that is better than explanation.” “Bear with me a little, Mrs. Asquith. I want you to come in suddenly. I want to try the shock of your appearance.” “Take me to my child!” said Mary; “I cannot bear all these preliminaries. I have a right to be with Hetty, wherever she is. Where is she? Tell me what room she is in. I know my way.” “Just one moment--one moment!” he said. He led the way to the room which had been the morning-room in Mary’s day, the brightest room in the house, looking out upon the flowers, and then left her at the door. “Come in,” he said, “in five minutes; throw open the door; make what noise you can--oh! forgive me--and let her see you fully. Don’t come too quick. It is for her sake. If she knows you, all will go well.” “If she knows me!” cried poor Mary. These terrible words subdued her in her impatience and almost anger. She stood at the door counting the time by the beatings of her heart. Then she pushed it open, as he told her. Hetty’s chair had been turned round to face the door, and she sat in it, her pale hands folded in her lap, her face, like marble, against the white pillow, her eyes looking steadily before her, with an extraordinary abstract gaze. Mary stood for a moment, herself paralysed by that strange sight, clasping her hands, with a cry of trouble and consternation. Then she flew forward and flung herself on her knees before this marble image of her child. “Hetty! Hetty! Speak to me,” she cried, clasping her arms round the inanimate figure. “Hetty!” Then, with a terrible cry, “Don’t you know your mother? don’t you know your mother, my darling, my poor child?” Mary perceived none of the people behind,