At this moment the old butler came in, his face stained with grief—for he had dearly loved Sir Reginald, who was his foster-brother—and announced that Dr. Childs was waiting to see Sir Henry. “Show him up,” said Henry, devoutly thankful for the interruption. “How do you do, Captain I mean Sir Henry Graves?” said the doctor, in his quiet voice, when Lady Graves and Ellen had left the room. “I attended your poor father’s funeral, and then went on to see a patient, thinking that I would give you a look on my way back. However, don’t let us talk of these things, but show me your leg if you will. Yes, I thought so: you have given it a nasty jar; you should never have tried to walk up those steps without help. Well, you will have to stop quiet for a month or so, that is all; and I think that it will be a good thing for you in more ways than one, for you seem very much shaken, my dear fellow, and no wonder, with all this trouble after a dangerous illness.” Henry thanked him; and then followed a little general conversation, in which Dr. Childs was careful not to let him know that he was aware of the scene that had occurred at his father’s death, though as a matter of fact the wildest rumours were floating up and down the country side, based upon hints that had fallen from Lady Graves in her first grief, and on what had been overheard by listeners at the door. Presently he rose to go, saying that he would call again on the morrow. “By the way,” he added, “I have got to see another patient to-night—your late nurse, Joan Haste.” “What is the matter with her?” asked Henry, flushing suddenly red, a symptom of interest or distress that did not escape the doctor’s practised eye. “So the talk is true,” he thought to himself. “Well, I guessed as much; indeed, I expected it all along: the girl has been in love with him for weeks. A pity, a sad pity!” “Oh! nothing at all serious,” he answered: “a chill and a touch of fever. It has been smouldering in her system for some time, I think. It seems she got soaked about ten days ago, and stood in her wet things. She is shaking it off now, however.” “Indeed; I am glad to hear that,” Henry answered, in a tone of relief which he could not quite conceal. “Will you remember me to Miss Haste when you see her, and tell her that——” “Yes?” said the doctor, his hand on the door. “That I am glad she has recovered, and—that—I was sorry not to be able to say good-bye to her,” he added hurriedly. “Certainly,” answered Dr. Childs, and went.