"I know that," replied Noel, mysteriously. "I know a thing or two that would make you stare. He is a good old sort; he is as good as they make them, and he deserves to turn up trumps." And with this peculiar form of blessing--which was nevertheless genuine in its way--Noel adjusted his _pince-nez_, and marched off with his head in the air as usual. When Althea returned, she had very little to add to this. Mollie was no better, certainly, and Dr. Duncan was undoubtedly anxious about her; but she had excellent nurses, and Sir Hindley Richmond was to come the next day. There had been some hitch or difficulty, and Moritz had been much put out. Althea was in the dark about it, for Mr. Ward had volunteered no explanation. "Sir Hindley Richmond is coming to-morrow," was all he said. "Mr. Ingram insists on it. He wired for him to-day, but there was some difficulty, and Ingram fussed awfully about it. I am not allowed to put in a word," he continued, with a feeble attempt at a smile. "The doctor and nurses manage everything; all sorts of things come to the house. Of course Ingram sends them, and if I remonstrate, I am told that the doctor ordered them, or that Nurse Helena wished for it." Althea was the bearer of another sad little missive from Everard. Waveney carried it off to her own room. She was still reading it with dry, tearless eyes when the gong sounded. "Do not lose heart, my darling," it finished. "It is always darkest before day. We will pray to our Heavenly Father that our sweet Mollie may be spared." Waveney was repeating this sentence over and over again, as she sat at the dinner-table. And Althea, seeing that she ate nothing, told Mitchell to fill her glass with Burgundy. "You must take that, my dear, and some of this nice light roll. If you make yourself ill, it will only give additional trouble." Althea spoke with such quiet decision that Waveney was compelled to obey. As she sipped the wine a tinge of colour came into her lips. But the bread was sadly crumbled on her plate. As she rose from the table her knees trembled under her, and she almost tottered as she followed Althea. Last night about this time she had told her. What a nightmare of horror these four-and-twenty hours had been! No wonder she felt giddy--no wonder--but here Althea took possession of her with gentle force. "Sit down, Waveney. Why, you foolish child, you have over-walked yourself, and eaten nothing, and of course you feel bad." And before Waveney could summon up sufficient energy to contradict this, she found herself lying on the library couch, with the softest of pillows under her head and a warm quilt over her. "Doreen and I are going across to the Porch House," observed Althea, kissing her. "It is Thursday evening. But dear old Nursie will look after you." "Thank you. But she need not trouble," returned Waveney, drowsily. "I am quite well, only tired."