“I think not, auntie,” the invalid answered, with a mournful smile. On the following day she wrote her husband a brief note, which was addressed to Park Lane, and forwarded thence to Greenlands. The letter ran thus: “DEAR MR. JERNINGHAM,--I have been very ill, and my doctors insist on my spending the autumn abroad. As there is always in such cases a risk of one’s not returning, I should like much to see you before I go. Please come to Hampton at your earliest convenience, and oblige yours faithfully, E. J.” Having despatched this letter, Mrs. Jerningham abandoned herself to the delight of a long, quiet afternoon with Mr. Desmond, who was to see her that day for the first time since her illness. He found her much changed; but the change had only increased her beauty. An almost supernal delicacy of tint and spirituality of expression characterized the thin face, the large, luminous eyes. The first sight of that loveliness, which was not of this earth, sent a sharp anguish to his heart. It cost him a struggle to return the invalid’s greeting with a cheerful countenance, and to speak hopefully of her improved health. “I shall never forgive myself that water-journey,” he said. “You have no cause to reproach yourself with that. It was I who obstinately faced the danger from first to last. But the doctors say the water-journey was only my culminating imprudence.” She changed the subject after this, and begged that no one would talk to her of her health. Laurence was surprised to find her so serene, so cheerful, so thoughtful of others, and forgetful of her own weakness. Never had she appeared to him more beautiful, never so estimable. Her manner to Lucy was peculiarly kind and tender. “You can never know what this dear girl has been to me!” she said, holding Lucy’s hand in both her own as she praised her. “In those long, miserable nights of delirium--I was delirious every night for more than a week, Laurence--I used to see her kind, pitying face watching me; and there was comfort in it when I was at the worst. Wilson was very good, and Aunt Fanny all that is kind and devoted; but this dear child seems to have been created to comfort the sick.” “I used to nurse poor papa when he was ill,” the girl answered, simply. “He was often delirious--much worse than you, Mrs. Jerningham; and he used to want to throw himself out of the window, or to kill himself with his razors. And then he would grow angry, and say that flies were tormenting him, and try to catch them,--when there were no flies, you know. It was very dreadful.” By and by Mrs. Jerningham asked to be left alone with her friend. “I want to ask Mr. Desmond’s advice about business affairs, auntie,” she said. “He knows as much law as most lawyers, you know.” Mrs. Colton discreetly withdrew, accompanied by Lucy.