“Now that I can once more,” said Beatrice; and again there was a silence, while she stood thinking deeply, but contrary to her usual habit, not speaking, and he knowing well her tendency to lose her repentant feelings by expressing them, was not willing to interrupt her. So they remained for nearly ten minutes, until at last he thought it time to leave her, and made some movement as if to do so. Then she spoke, “Only tell me one thing, papa. Do you think Aunt Mary has any hope? There was something--something death-like in her face. Does she hope?” Mr. Geoffrey Langford shook his head. “Not yet,” said he. “I think it may be better after this first night is over. She is evidently reckoning the hours, and I think she has a kind of morbid expectation that it will be as it was with his father, who lived twelve hours after his accident.” “But surely, surely,” said Beatrice eagerly, “this is a very different case; Fred has spoken so much more than my uncle did; and Philip says he is convinced that there is no fracture--” “It is a morbid feeling,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, “and therefore impossible to be reasoned away. I see she dreads to be told to hope, and I shall not even attempt it till these fatal twelve hours are over.” “Poor dear aunt!” sighed Beatrice. “I am glad, if it was to be, that you were here, for nobody else would understand her.” “Understand her!” said he, with something of a smile. “No, Bee, such sorrow as hers has a sacredness in it which is not what can be understood.” Beatrice sighed, and then with a look as if she saw a ray of comfort, said, “I suppose mamma will soon be here?” “I think not,” said her father, “I shall tell her she had better wait to see how things go on, and keep herself in reserve. At present it is needlessly tormenting your aunt to ask her to leave Fred for a moment, and I do not think she has even the power to rest. While this goes on, I am of more use in attending to him than your mamma could be; but if he is a long time recovering, it will be a great advantage to have her coming fresh, and not half knocked up with previous attendance.” “But how she will wish to be here!” exclaimed Beatrice, “and how you will want her!” “No doubt of that, Queenie,” said her father smiling, “but we must reserve our forces, and I think she will be of the same mind. Well, I must go. Where is Henrietta to sleep to-night?” “With me,” said Beatrice. “I will send her to you as soon as I can. You must do what you can with her, Bee, for I can see that the way she hangs on her mamma is quite oppressive. If she had but a little vigour!” “I don’t know what to do about her!” said Beatrice with more dejection than she had yet shown, “I wish I could be of any comfort to her, but I can’t--I shall never do good to anybody--only harm.” “Fear the harm, and the good will come,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford. “Good night, my dear.”