“I understand that Captain Graves climbed the tower to get some young jackdaws. He fell, and she tried to catch him in her arms, but of course was knocked backwards.” “She always was a good plucked one, was Joan,” said Mrs. Gillingwater, with a certain reluctant pride. “Well, if no harm comes of it, she has brought us a bit of custom this time anyhow, and when we want it bad enough. The Captain is likely to be laid up here some weeks, ain’t he, sir?” “For a good many weeks, I fear, Mrs. Gillingwater, even if things go well with him.” “Is he in any danger, then?” “There is always some danger to a middle-aged man in such a case: it is possible that he may lose his leg, and that is a serious matter.” “Lord! and all to get _her_ young jackdaws. You have something to answer for, miss, you have,” soliloquised Mrs. Gillingwater aloud; adding, by way of explanation, as they reached the passage, “She’s an unlucky girl, Joan is, for all her good looks,—always making trouble, like her mother before her: I suppose it is in the blood.” Leaving his assistant in charge, Dr. Childs returned home, for he had another case to visit that night. Next morning he wrote two notes—one to Sir Reginald Graves and one to Mr. Levinger, both of whom were patients of his, acquainting them with what had occurred in language as little alarming as possible. Having despatched these letters by special messengers, he walked to the Crown and Mitre. As he had anticipated, except for the pain of the wound in her shoulder, Joan was almost herself again: she had not caught cold, the puncture looked healthy, and already her vigorous young system was shaking off the effects of her shock and distress of mind. Henry also seemed to be progressing as favourably as could be expected; but it was deemed advisable to keep him under the influence of opiates for the present. “I suppose that we had better send for a trained nurse,” said the doctor. “If I telegraph to London, we could have one down by the evening.” “If you do, sir, I am sure I don’t know where she’s to sleep,” answered Mrs. Gillingwater; “there isn’t a hole or corner here unless Joan turns out of the little back room, and then there is nowhere for her to go. Can’t I manage for the present, sir, with Joan to help? I’ve had a lot to do with sick folk of all sorts in my day, worse luck, and some knack of dealing with them too, they tell me. Many and many’s the eyes that I have shut for the last time. Then it isn’t as though you was far off neither: you or Mr. Salter can always be in and out if you are wanted.” “Well,” said the doctor, after reflecting, “we will let the question stand over for the present, and see how the case goes on.” He knew Mrs. Gillingwater to be a capable and resourceful woman, and one who did not easily tire, for he had had to do with her in numerous maternity cases, where she acted the part of _sage-femme_ with an address that had won her a local reputation.