Cassandra rested an elbow on the arm of her chair, and leant her head on the uplifted hand. A thrill of something like fear ran through her veins. The simile of the hurdle had leapt into her mind subconsciously, as such things will, but the conscious mind recognised its face. Along the quiet path lay no chance for the reforming of life; it must necessarily be some shock, some upheaval, which would either open out new fields, or gild the old with some of the vanished splendour. Even if one failed to reach the goal without a toss, a toss was preferable to an eternal jog-trot. Cassandra narrowed her eyes, and stared into space, but no man's face pictured itself in her mind; for ten long years Bernard had, for good or ill, filled the foreground of her life, not the mildest of flirtations had been hers. She was a pure-minded woman, bred on conventional lines, and the idea of a lover would have outraged her delicacy. In considering the events which might possibly vitalise the future, her mind dwelt on strictly legitimate happenings. A serious illness,--her own,--Bernard's,--the boy's; the loss of money; a lengthened separation, which would revive joys staled by custom. Regarded dispassionately the prospects were not cheerful, nevertheless she found herself cheered by the contemplation. She saw herself occupied, engrossed, with something to do, a real object in life. It might be a reviving experience to have one of the Bernards--not dangerously so, of course, but just enough ill to feel dependent on the one woman in the family. Even to be ill oneself would have points. She would sit propped up against her best pillow covers, wearing a distracting bed jacket and cap, and Bernard would come in, and look at her, and say,--What would he say? Cassandra's smile was twisted with a pathetic humour. "Holloa, old girl. Got 'em _all_ on! Bucking up a bit, ain't you? I'm off for a ride..." Rather a tame denouement to which to look forward as the reward for weeks of suffering! Cassandra determined on the whole that she would rather keep well. And the two Bernards,--what sort of convalescents would they make? Cassandra drew a mental picture of the sick room, with the older patient stretched on a couch, and herself seated by his side, a devoted and assiduous nurse, but there was an obstinate commonplaceness about father and son which refused to adapt itself to the scene. Bernard would have no reflections to make on the wonder of life restored; he would want to hear the _Sporting Times_ read aloud, and the latest news of the crops. His tenderest acknowledgment of her care would be a, "Looking a bit peaked, old girl! What's the sense of paying a nurse and doing the work yourself?" As for the boy, he would talk cricket, be politely bored, and surreptitiously wipe off kisses. Cassandra determined that on the whole the two Bernards had better keep well also!