And then Marigold disclosed the treat she had in store--that she and Alice might take him out for a short time in the afternoon in a bath-chair they had borrowed. And the doctor agreed. Yet, when he went away, he seemed more cold and distant than ever, so Marigold thought, though to Patches he was just the same. “I don’t believe he likes me,” she said to herself very sadly. “He thinks--I don’t know what dreadful things he thinks of me. I think he is prejudiced against me, for some reason I can’t understand.” CHAPTER XVII And now Marigold’s days were fully occupied. The nurse came at ten, and stayed till nine in the morning, and after that Marigold’s duties began, though she invariably went in before with breakfast, and scraps of news, and to have a talk with the nurse, from whose experience and professional knowledge she learnt a great deal concerning the management of the sick. Each day Mr Barringcourt came at his accustomed hour, and each day, no matter how bad little Timothy might be, he slept peacefully and happily in the strong arms that so tenderly held him. Marigold, during this time, would sit in her seat beside the fire, sewing or knitting; very quiet, as unobtrusive as the best-trained nurse could ever hope to be. And Alice noticed the gradual change in her, the paler colouring--the rounded contour of youth being moulded to a more delicate and classic moulding. And sometimes, as she heard the merry laugh less often, and the quick tongue slower to answer and more gentle, she felt the shadow of anxiety creep over her, and then she would say: “She is better there. Work is good for her. This little boy was sent by Heaven to take her mind off the High Priest and her infatuation.” Thus did Alice reason, wisely yet foolishly, and only feared the strain upon her mistress’s health--forgetful that the young are strong. Yes. In the little cottage there was much to alter Marigold, for in the magnitude of splendour it was a palace. The little crippled child--so patient, so winning, so clinging, so interested in life, so swiftly passing towards Death’s solemn secret--how much he taught her every day! unfolding as a rosebud opens, and with silent pain, every tender passion and all the mother-love stored in her nature. But that was only part of Marigold--only a part, though an important one, and in itself complete. But something deeper grew as well, strong and more painful--something that she scarce believed, and did not, would not, understand. For here had come into her life, just at that headlong stage when the world is a plaything and life a toy, the strong current that starts with love, goes on to pain, and, for the strong, ends in life that is not borrowed nor restricted. She would sit and watch the Master as he played or talked with Timothy--the forgotten third, greatly remembering.