Henrietta was annoyed, and walked about the room, instead of sitting down to read. She was too fond of her own will to like being thus checked, and she thought she had quite as good a right to be with her brother as her aunt could have. Every temper has one side or other on which it is susceptible; and this was hers. She thought it affection for her brother, whereas it was impatience of being ordered. Her mother forced herself to speak cheerfully. “Aunt Geoffrey is a capital nurse,” said she; “there is something so decided about her that it always does one good. It saves all the trouble and perplexity of thinking for oneself.” “I had rather judge for myself,” said Henrietta. “That is all very well to talk of,” said her mother, smiling sadly, “but it is a very different thing when you are obliged to do it.” “Well, what do you like to hear?” said Henrietta, who found herself too cross for conversation. “The old man’s home?” “Do not read unless you like it, my dear; I think you must be tired. You would want ‘lungs of brass’ to go on all day to both of us. You had better not. I should like to talk.” Henrietta being in a wilful fit, chose nevertheless to read, because it gave her the satisfaction of feeling that Aunt Geoffrey was inflicting a hardship upon her; although her mother would have preferred conversation. So she took up a book, and began, without any perception of the sense of what she was reading, but her thoughts dwelling partly on her brother, and partly on her aunt’s provoking ways. She read on through a whole chapter, then closing the book hastily, exclaimed, “I must go and see what Aunt Geoffrey is doing with Fred.” “She is not such a very dangerous person,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, almost laughing at the form of the expression. “Well, but you surely want to know how he is, mamma?” “To be sure I do, but I am so afraid of his being disturbed. If he was just going to sleep now.” “Yes, but you know how softly I can open the door.” “Your aunt would let us know if there was anything to hear. Pray take care, my dear.” “I must go, I can’t bear it any longer; I will only just listen,” said Henrietta; “I will not be a moment.” “Let me have the book, my dear,” said her mother, who knew but too well the length of Henrietta’s moments, and who had just, by means of a great effort, succeeded in making herself take interest in the book. Henrietta gave it to her, and darted off. The door of Fred’s room was ajar, and she entered. Aunt Geoffrey, Bennet, and Judith were standing round the bed, her aunt sponging away the blood that was flowing from Frederick’s temples. His eyes were closed, and he now and then gave long gasping sighs of oppression and faintness. “Leeches!” thought Henrietta, as she started with consternation and displeasure. “This is pretty strong! Without telling me or mamma! Well, this is what I call doing something with him indeed.”