“Ah doan’t suppose Mr. Biron’ll be long coming back,” she said. “If Ah was to make ye both a coop o’ tea, Mr. Elshaw, and then run back to my home for an hour, would you stay here till Ah coom back? Ah’d give a look in to see all was reght. She doan’t look as if she ought to spend t’ neght by herself.” This was said in a low voice to Bram, whom she had beckoned to the door of the back kitchen, while Claire remained in the same attitude of deep depression at the table. “No,” said he at once. “She mustn’t be left alone to-night. I’ll stay till you come back, whether her father comes back before then or not. She’s had a great shock--an awful shock. But,” and he glanced back at the motionless girl, “I won’t tell you about it now. And you can go now. You needn’t trouble about the tea; I’ll make it.” Joan looked at him, and then at Claire with round, apprehensive eyes. “Will she let ye stay?” she asked, in a dubious whisper. “Poor child, yes. She’s almost forgotten who I am.” But Claire had lifted up her head, and was rising to come towards them. Bram dismissed Joan by a look, and she slipped out by the back way, and left the two together. Claire followed Joan with dull eyes as the good woman, with a series of affectionate little smiles and nods, went out, shutting the door behind her. Then she remained staring at the closed door, while Bram, without taking any notice of her, went quietly across to the cupboard where the tea was kept, took out the tea-caddy, and put the kettle on the fire to boil. She did not interrupt him, and when he glanced at her again he saw that she had sunk down again in her chair, and had dropped her head heavily upon her hands, leaning on the table drowsily. Presently she made a little moaning noise, and began to move her head restlessly from side to side. Bram put a cup of tea down in front of her, and said gently-- “Got a headache, Miss Claire?” She raised her head as if it was a weight too heavy for her to lift without difficulty. “Oh, Bram, it’s so bad, worse than I’ve ever had before,” said she plaintively. In her eyes there was no longer any grief; only a dull sense of great physical pain. She seemed to have forgotten everything but that burning, leaden weight at her own temples. “Will you drink this, and then lie down for a little while?” asked he. With the same absolute docility that she had shown to him all the evening, she took the cup from his hands, and tried to drink. But she seemed unable to swallow, and in a few moments he had to take it from her, lest her trembling hands should let it drop on the floor. “Now, you had better lie down,” said he. “Come into the drawing-room; there’s a fire there. I saw it flickering as we came along. If you lie down on the sofa till Joan comes back, she’ll take you upstairs and put you to bed.”