Dr. Bernard stayed at the Park all that night; he whispered no decided hope to Amy's heart. There was only a very grave look on his face as after bending over Bertie and feeling the quick, sharp pulse beating so fiercely against his finger, he said, "While there is life there is hope," and Amy was obliged to content her poor heart with this, and repeat it over and over again to herself all through that long sad night; the second of Bertie's illness, and of her own and her husband's watch, for Robert scarcely ever left his boy, but remained through the weary hours of night patiently by his side; only old Hannah snatching every now and then a moment's sleep. Towards the morning Bertie grew more composed, the hands tossed about less restlessly, and the weary, anxious eyes closed in sleep: so calm and still he looked that Amy bent down her head to catch the faint breath. "It is not death?" she said to Dr. Bernard, who had been hastily aroused. "No. The crisis is past I hope. The fever has left him. It is weakness, excessive weakness," but he did not add that that was as much to be dreaded as the fever; while Amy only prayed that when he awoke he would recognise her, so long it seemed since his little lips had said "Mamma." Just before luncheon, Anne with her husband drove up to the Hall. She was rushing into the morning-room with her usual haste and merry laugh, when she was checked by Mrs. Linchmore's grave face. "Has anything happened, Isabella? How grave you look." Yes a great deal had happened; she had a great deal to hear, and Anne sat herself down to listen to it all patiently--or as patiently as she could to the end. As soon as it was told, she was rushing impetuously from the room. "Is the boy in the small red room?" she asked. "Yes. But Anne, the fever is infectious; you had better stay away. Mrs. Vavasour can come and see you here." "As if she would leave him?" she cried, "not a bit of it, I know her better, besides I am not afraid of anything. I shall go." Anne was right, there was very little indeed she was afraid of. "But Anne, think of your husband; he might not like it." "Ah! true; how tiresome it is sometimes to have a husband! I suppose I shall have to wait a whole hour before he thinks of coming back." "Did he drive in with you?" "Yes, and has gone on in the pony carriage to call at the Rectory. Isn't it provoking. I have a great mind not to wait for him." "It might have been a great deal worse; suppose he had not driven in with you?" "Then I should have braved his anger and been at the boy's bed-side long ago," and she walked to the window, and strained her eyes impatiently down the drive. "Have you seen the child today?" she asked presently. "No, not since his illness; but Dr. Bernard tells me the fever left him early this morning." "It did? Oh! then he'll soon get better." "But he is so excessively weak, that he holds out small hopes of his recovery."