Geoffrey went back to Marlow-street to hear the last tidings of the little patient. She was sleeping peacefully, and her mother seemed more hopeful. This lightened his heart a good deal, and he went back to his hotel, smoked a cigar, played a game at pyramids with some officers from the Stillmington Barracks, and thus beguiled the time until a waiter brought him the answer to his telegram. It was brief and decisive: ‘I shall come to Stillmington by the last train. Must see patients before leaving.’ The last train! That meant considerable delay. It was now four o’clock, and the last train came into Stillmington at eleven. How coolly these doctors take things! Geoffrey felt as if his friend ought to have abandoned all his other patients to their fates for the sake of this sick child. The last train! Was this the measure of friendship? Happily the latest report of the little girl was cheering. Doubtless all would be well. On the strength of this hope Geoffrey dined; and dined tolerably well, having asked the officers to share his meal. This hospitality prolonged the business of dining till after nine o’clock, when Geoffrey pleaded an engagement as an excuse for getting rid of his guests, and went for the third time that day to Marlow-street. He had drunk little or nothing at the social board, and had felt the exercise of hospitality somewhat irksome; but he was the kind of young man to whom dinner-giving is an absolute necessity. The draper’s shop in Marlow-street had closed its shutters, but the door stood open, and the damsel in ringlets was airing herself on the threshold after the labours of a day which had brought her about half a dozen customers. To Geoffrey’s question, which had become almost a formula, she answered hopefully. The child was better. She had sat up for a minute and had drunk a cup of milk, and had taken sundry spoonfuls of beef-tea, and had eaten three grapes, and had spoken ‘quite lively and sensible-like. Children are so soon down, and so soon up again,’ said the damsel. ‘It’s no good taking on about them, as I told Mrs. Bertram this morning.’ ‘She is happier now, I suppose,’ said Geoffrey. ‘O dear, yes, quite herself again.’ ‘Will you ask her if I may see her for a minute or two? I want to tell her about the doctor I have sent for.’ The girl went up-stairs and returned speedily. ‘Mrs. Bertram will be happy to see you,’ she said, ‘if you’ll please to walk up.’ If he would please to walk up! Would he please to enter paradise, did its gates stand open for him? To see her even in her grief was sweet as a foretaste of heaven. She received him this evening with a smile. ‘God has heard my prayer,’ she said; ‘my little darling is better. I really don’t think I need have troubled your kind friend to come down. I begin to feel more confidence in Mr. Vincent, now that my treasure is better.’