“No; let that suffice, and let us understand one another, once for all. I have been an obedient daughter to you; I have made sacrifices that you have never dreamt of”--(Ah! the poor curate! thought Mr. West)--“and you must give me more liberty. I am of age to go and come as I please unquestioned. I will do nothing wrong; you may trust me. I can take excellent care of myself, and I _must_ have more freedom.” “Must, must, must! How many more ‘musts’? Well, at any rate, you are a girl to be trusted, and there is something in what you say. I dare say you have sacrificed some girlish fancy; you have nursed me; you are a credit to me. Yes, and you shall come and go as you please, on the trust-me-all-in-all principle, and the understanding that you do not compromise yourself in any way; but you have your advantages, Madeline--a fine home and position, and everything money can buy. Remember, you will miss the best ball if you start to-night, and the Princess Raggawuffinsky was to call for you. Have you thought of _that_?” “Oh!” with a frantic wave of her hand, “what is a _ball_?” “Well, well, well! How much cash do you require, and when will you be back?” “I have plenty of money. If all goes well, I shall be back in a few days--as soon as possible--for the regatta, perhaps.” And so, with a few more remarks and assurances, and expostulations on Mr. West’s part at her travelling alone, she pocketed a cheque pressed upon her, and left the room victorious. Her father was easier to deal with than she had anticipated. Laurence was right--for once! Then she ran upstairs to her own sanctum and locked the door, pulled off her dress, put on her cool dressing-wrapper, and sat down in a fever of mind and body to wait for the telegram. She remained motionless, with her eyes fastened on the clock, a prey to the wildest fears. Supposing the child was dead!--she shuddered involuntarily; if it _were_, she would go out of her senses. Her anxiety increased with every hour. She was in a frenzy of impatience, now pacing the room, now sitting, now standing, now kneeling in prayer. At last there was a knock at the door--Josephine’s knock. Josephine’s voice, “Une dépêche pour vous, mademoiselle.” Mademoiselle’s hand shook so much that she could hardly open the door, hardly tear asunder the envelope, or read its contents--at a gulp. Josephine had never seen her mistress in this frenzied, distraught condition--her colour like death, her face haggard, her eyes staring, her hair hanging in loose _abandon_. What did it mean? The telegram brought good news. It said, “He is much better, and in no danger. You need not come.” The sender’s name was not notified. Whoever it was, it mattered little; the relief was inexpressible. What a fright Mrs. Holt had given her, and all for nothing!