"Yes," returned Althea, sorrowfully. "I really think Mollie Ward has the sweetest face I have ever seen. Oh, I do not wonder that Waveney loves her so. She is suffering cruelly, poor child; but her father will not allow her to go home." "No, of course not," he returned, so quickly that Althea glanced at him. "He is right, quite right. Diphtheria is terribly infectious. She might be ill, too. Good heavens! No one in their sense would expose a girl to such a risk." And Thorold spoke in a low, vehement tone of suppressed feeling; but Althea was too much engrossed with her own painful train of thoughts to notice his unusual emotion. "No; you are right," she replied. "They must be kept apart. But, Thorold, it makes my heart ache to see her, poor child! It is impossible for any one to comfort her. I can do nothing with her." Then Thorold's firm lips twitched a little. "I am sorry," he said, in a quick undertone; "more sorry than I can say. Will you tell her so, please? Good-night. I must go home and work." And then he went off hastily, forgetting that it was his usual custom to help Althea extinguish the lights, and to walk down the dark garden with her; but Althea, sad and pre-occupied, hardly noticed this desertion on Thorold's part. The evening had seemed a long one to her; her thoughts were in poor Mollie's sick room. Down below a lonely, anxious man sat by his solitary fire. "God comfort him," she said to herself, softly, as she rose from her seat. The next few days dragged heavily on--days so dim with fear and anguish that for many long years Waveney never willingly alluded to that time, when the mere mention of it drove the colour from her face. Even Mollie, suffering tortures patiently, hardly suffered more than Waveney. Sir Hindley Richmond had paid his visit, but had spoken very guardedly about the case. There were complications. It was impossible to say. A great deal depended upon nursing. He would come again--yes, certainly, if Mr. Ingram wished it; and then the great doctor drove off. Everard took the news to the Red House. Perhaps he needed comfort himself, and pined for a sight of his darling. But Waveney's changed looks and languid step filled him with dismay. She came to him silently, and as he took her in his arms a sob burst from his lips. "Waveney, you will break my heart. Have pity on your poor father. I have but two daughters, and Mollie----" And here he could say no more. Waveney put her hands on his shoulders; they were cold as ice, and her eyes had the fixed, heavy look of one who walks in her sleep. "Father, is Mollie dying?" Her voice was quite toneless. Everard started in horror. "My darling child, no--God forbid that such sorrow should be ours; but she is very ill, and I am afraid Sir Hindley Richmond thinks very gravely of the case. There are complications; but he will come again. Ingram insists on it. They are nursing her splendidly. Everything depends on that." But it may be doubted if Waveney heard this.