The child lay asleep: his nurse, Betsy, sat sewing by his side. The girl confessed that she had allowed him sometimes to run in and take a look at the peacock. Lady Chavasse would not have him awakened: she bent and kissed his cheek lightly: and talked to Mary in a whisper. It was just as though there had been no break in their acquaintanceship, just as though no painful episode, in which they were antagonistic actors, had ever occurred between them. "I hear you have come into a fortune, Miss Layne," she said, as she shook hands with Mary again in the little hall before departure. For Hester Picker had told of this. "Into a great deal of money," replied Mary. "I am glad to hear it: _glad_," came the parting response, whispered emphatically in Mary's ear, and it was accompanied by a pressure of the fingers. Mr. Duffham was standing at his door, watching my lady's exit from Mrs. Layne's house, his eyes lost in wonder. Seeing him, she crossed over, and went in, Mr. Duffham throwing open the door of his sitting-room. She began speaking of the accident to Major Layne's little son--what a pity it was, but that she hoped he would do well. Old Duffham replied that he hoped so too, and thought he would. "Mrs. Layne seems to be growing very old," went on Lady Chavasse. "She was as drowsy as she could be this afternoon, and seemed scarcely to know me." "Old people are apt to be sleepy after dinner," returned the doctor. And then there was a pause. Lady Chavasse (as Duffham's diary expresses it) seemed to be particularly absent in manner, as if she were thinking to herself, instead of talking to him. Because he had nothing else to say, he asked after the health of Lady Rachel. That aroused her at once. "She is not strong. She is not strong. I am sure of it." "She does not seem to ail much, that I can see," returned Duffham, who often had to hear this same thing said of Lady Rachel. "She never requires medical advice." "I don't care: she is not strong. There are no children," continued Lady Chavasse, dropping her voice to a whisper; and a kind of piteous, imploring expression darkened her eyes. "No." "Four years married, going on for five, and no signs of any. No signs of children, Mr. Duffham." "I can't help it, my lady," returned Duffham. "Nobody can help it. But it is an awful misfortune. It is beginning to be a great trouble in my life. As the weeks and months and years pass on--the _years_, Mr. Duffham--and bring no hope, my very spirit seems to fail. 'Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.'" "True." "It has been the one great desire of my later years," continued Lady Chavasse, too much in earnest to be reticent, "and it does not come. I wonder which is the worst to be borne; some weighty misfortune that falls and crushes, or a longed-for boon that we watch and pray for in vain? The want of it, the eager daily strain of disappointment, has become to me worse than a nightmare." * * * * *