“The _Nubia_ has got to Las Palmas; it was in the paper this morning,” says Phillida. “But of course you saw it.” Until the mention of Binning’s name, Lavinia had been enjoying the company of her young friends; now the one desire concerning them that occupies her mind is, that they should go. “You must remember that for the last ten days I have seen and heard nothing. I am as behindhand in my information as a convict,” she answers, laughing uneasily. The days pass, each one with a trifling gain to distinguish it--perhaps only a curtain allowed to be a little more drawn back; an atom more colour in the pale lips; a fuller sound in the thready voice. Every day some small stretched privilege is accorded, each dealt out with a frugal hand, that feels its way tentatively, lest the bruised brain should avenge itself for any temerity in hurrying it to be well. Whether thanks to these precautions or to a natural wiriness, Rupert is apparently returning to life and vigour, without a throw-back, and with an even steadiness that--considering the nature of the accident that has laid him low--seems nothing short of miraculous. “Humanly speaking, we are out of the wood,” the doctor says. It is needless to state that he is an old doctor. A young one would have scorned the possibility of there being any other way. Since he is “humanly speaking, out of the wood,” Rupert is allowed to receive one visitor a day for half an hour at a time; and since Sir George and Lavinia do not count, it is a party of three that gathers round his bed, on the occasion of Mrs. Darcy’s being for the first time admitted. In the midst of the gentle heartiness of her greeting to the explorer so lately returned from the dim limits of life, the rector’s wife catches herself wondering whether Lavinia is recalling the last time on which they had met by a sick man’s bed; or whether the preceding weeks have wiped it off her memory, as they have wiped the youth off her face. “Tell the rector we shall require his services sooner than he thinks,” Sir George says, his face, scored with time and sorrow, beaming at Susan from the other side of the bed. “If only this lazy chap will hurry up. I believe he enjoys lying here and being pampered.” “I am sure he does,” Rupert answers, with a white smile. “We are thinking of August or September at latest,” continues the old man, looking round half suspiciously at the three faces about him, as if defying contradiction of his optimism. Rupert has never contradicted his father. He does not now. “If we make it September, we shall have the hop-pickers to grace it,” he answers, with another little smile. “Can you never look at life except from the ridiculous point of view?” cries his father, in quite his old manner. Then, riddled with remorse, he falls to scolding Lavinia for having--as she has not, nor is ever likely to do--forgotten the moment for administering some potion or extract.