The Irishwoman with a half-crippled husband, who had replaced Mrs. Denton, was clearly incompetent. Mrs. Denton at least had been orderly and clean. The girl's heart smote her with a fresh pang as she made her way upstairs. She found Augustina no worse; and in her room there was always comfort, and even brightness. She had a good nurse; a Catholic "Sister" from London, of a kind and cheerful type, that Laura herself could not dislike; and whatever working power there was in the household was concentrated on her service. Miss Fountain took off her things, and settled in for the day. Augustina chattered incessantly, except when her weakness threw her into long dozes, mingled often, Laura thought, with slight wandering. Her wish evidently was to be always talking of her brother; but in this she checked herself whenever she could, as though controlled by some resolution of her own, or some advice from another. Yet in the end she said a great deal about him. She spoke of the last weeks of Lent, of the priests who had been staying in the house; of the kindness that had been shown her. That wonderful network of spiritual care and attentions--like a special system of courtesy having its own rules and etiquette--with which Catholicism surrounds the dying, had been drawn about the poor little widow. During the last few weeks Mass had been said several times in her room; Father Leadham had given her Communion every day in Easter week; on Easter Sunday the children from the orphanage had come to sing to her; that Roman palm over the bed was brought her by Alan himself. The statuette of St. Joseph, too, was his gift. So she lay and talked through the day, cheerfully enough. She did not want to hear of Cambridge or the Friedlands, still less of the farm. Her whole interest now was centred in her own state, and in the Catholic joys and duties which it still permitted. She never spoke of her husband; Laura bitterly noted it. But there were moments when she watched her stepdaughter, and once when the Sister had left them she laid her hand on Laura's arm and whispered: "Oh! Laura--he has grown so much greyer--since--since October." The girl said nothing. Augustina closed her eyes, and said with much twitching and agitation, "When--when I am gone, he will go to the Jesuits--I know he will. The place will come to our cousin, Richard Helbeck. He has plenty of money--it will be very different some day." "Did--did Father Leadham tell you that?" said Laura, after a while. "Yes. He admitted it. He said they had twice dissuaded him in former years. But now--when I'm gone--it'll be allowed." Suddenly Augustina opened her eyes. "Laura! where are you?" Her little crooked face worked with tears. "I'm glad!--We ought all to be glad. I don't--I don't believe he ever has a happy moment!" She began to weep piteously. Laura tried to console her, putting her cheek to hers, with inarticulate soothing words. But Augustina turned away from her--almost in irritation.