Very little had been said at Framley Parsonage about Lord Lufton’s offer after the departure of that gentleman; very little, at least, in Lucy’s presence. That the parson and his wife should talk about it between themselves was a matter of course; but very few words were spoken on the matter either by or to Lucy. She was left to her own thoughts, and possibly to her own hopes. And then other matters came up at Framley which turned the current of interest into other tracks. In the first place there was the visit made by Mr. Sowerby to the Dragon of Wantly, and the consequent revelation made by Mark Robarts to his wife. And while that latter subject was yet new, before Fanny and Lucy had as yet made up their minds as to all the little economies which might be practised in the household without serious detriment to the master’s comfort, news reached them that Mrs. Crawley of Hogglestock had been stricken with fever. Nothing of the kind could well be more dreadful than this. To those who knew the family it seemed impossible that their most ordinary wants could be supplied if that courageous head were even for a day laid low; and then the poverty of poor Mr. Crawley was such that the sad necessities of a sick bed could hardly be supplied without assistance. “I will go over at once,” said Fanny. “My dear!” said her husband, “it is typhus, and you must first think of the children. I will go.” “What on earth could you do, Mark?” said his wife. “Men on such occasions are almost worse than useless; and then they are so much more liable to infection.” “I have no children, nor am I a man,” said Lucy, smiling; “for both of which exemptions I am thankful. I will go, and when I come back I will keep clear of the bairns.” So it was settled, and Lucy started in the pony-carriage, carrying with her such things from the parsonage storehouse as were thought to be suitable to the wants of the sick lady at Hogglestock. When she arrived there, she made her way into the house, finding the door open, and not being able to obtain the assistance of the servant girl in ushering her in. In the parlour she found Grace Crawley, the eldest child, sitting demurely in her mother’s chair nursing an infant. She, Grace herself, was still a young child, but not the less, on this occasion of well-understood sorrow, did she go through her task not only with zeal but almost with solemnity. Her brother, a boy of six years old, was with her, and he had the care of another baby. There they sat in a cluster, quiet, grave, and silent, attending on themselves, because it had been willed by fate that no one else should attend on them. “How is your mamma, dear Grace?” said Lucy, walking up to her, and holding out her hand. “Poor mamma is very ill, indeed,” said Grace. “And papa is very unhappy,” said Bobby, the boy. “I can’t get up because of baby,” said Grace; “but Bobby can go and call papa out.”