"Is it another dream?" she whispered. "Was not father here really?" Then Thorold smiled at her. "It was no dream," he said, quietly. "The good news is quite true. Mr. Ward, will you take my place, please?" Then Everard knelt down by her couch. Waveney's weak arms were round his neck in a moment. "Father," she said, pressing her cheek against his, "tell it me again. Mollie--my Mollie--is not going to die?" Then Everard, in rather a tremulous voice, repeated the good news. There had been a change for the better early in the day, but he had waited until the afternoon for the physician's verdict. The danger that they dreaded was no longer imminent; the disease had run its course; everything depended now upon skilful nursing, with care and watchfulness; Sir Hindley hoped that Mollie would, in time, recover her normal strength; but in this insidious disease there was the danger of sudden collapse from exhaustion--indeed, there were other risks, but Everard did not mention this. Waveney listened with painful attention; then her heavy eyes were fixed wistfully on her father's face. "It is really true!" she murmured. "Thank God, oh, thank God! Father, dear, may I see her now?" Everard frowned anxiously; he had dreaded this question, but he had to be firm, for the doctor's orders were stringent. "No, dear," he said, sorrowfully, "you must not see her yet. It is for Mollie's sake as well as yours. No one must see her; the least excitement or agitation, in her weak state, might be fatal. You must be patient, my little Waveney, and I will promise you this, that you shall be Mollie's first visitor;" and then Waveney hid her face on his shoulder. "Do not let her talk any more," observed Althea, gently; and then Thorold came forward to take his leave. As he pressed her hand, Waveney looked at him with a touching expression of gratitude in her dark eyes. "You were right," she said, in a low voice, "and I was wicked and faithless; but I will never be faithless again." But his sole answer was a smile so bright and reassuring that in her weakness it almost dazzled her, as though some sudden sunbeam had flashed across her eyes. "Fear nothing," it seemed to say, "poor little tired child, rest and be still." And indeed, before Everard left the house, an hour later, the worn-out girl was sleeping peacefully, while Althea, with motherly eyes, watched beside her. It was late that night before Althea retired to rest. Thorold's account had filled her with uneasiness; his description made her shudder. The dark, solitary towing-path, with the dense mist rising from the river; the exhausted little creature trying to walk off her sorrow and restlessness. No wonder that Althea's kind heart ached with pity. "Oh, Thorold," she said, and her eyes were full of tears, "how do we know what that poor child may have to suffer for her imprudence? She may have rheumatic fever. Oh, one cannot tell what may be the result of such madness."