Mrs. Trevanion appeared at dinner as usual, coming into the drawing-room at the last moment, to the great surprise of the gentlemen, who stared and started as if at a ghost as she came in, their concealed alarm and astonishment forming a strange contrast to the absolute calm of Mrs. Lennox, the slight boyish impatience of Reginald at being kept waiting for dinner, and the evident relief of Rosalind, who had been questioning them all with anxious eyes. Madam was very pale; but she smiled and made a brief apology. She took old Mr. Blake’s arm to go in to dinner, who, though he was a man who had seen a great deal in his life, shook “like as a leaf,” he said afterwards; but her arm was as steady as a rock, and supported him. The doctor said to her under his breath as they sat down, “You are doing too much. Remember, endurance is not boundless.” “Is it not?” she said aloud, looking at him with a smile. He was a man of composed and robust mind, but he ate no dinner that day. The dinner was indeed a farce for most of the company. Aunt Sophy, indeed, though with a shake of her head, and a sighing remark now and then, took full advantage of her meal, and Reginald cleared off everything that was set before him with the facility of his age; but the others made such attempts as they could to deceive the calm but keen penetration of Dorrington, who saw through all their pretences, and having served many meals in many houses after a funeral, knew that “something” must be “up,” more than Mr. Trevanion’s death, to account for the absence of appetite. There was not much conversation either. Aunt Sophy, indeed, to the relief of every one, took the position of spokeswoman. “I would not have troubled to come down-stairs this evening, Grace,” she said. “You always did too much. I am sure all the watching and nursing you have had would have killed ten ordinary people; but she never spared herself, did she, doctor? Well, it is a satisfaction now. You must feel that you neglected nothing, and that everything that could be thought of was done--everything! I am sure you and I, John, can bear witness to that, that a more devoted nurse no man ever had. Poor Reginald,” she added, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “if he did not always seem so grateful as he ought, you may be sure, dear, it was his illness that was to blame, not his heart.” No one dared to make any reply to this, till Madam herself said, after a pause, her voice sounding distinct through a hushed atmosphere of attention, “All that is over and forgotten; there is no blame.” “Yes, my dear,” said innocent Sophy; “that is a most natural and beautiful sentiment for you. But John and I can never forget how patient you were. A king could not have been better taken care of.”