"Oh yes. Miss Reynolds will do famously," she said to Mona, who had left the room with her. "Fortunately I was close at hand, and she sent for me in time. With a temperament like hers, the temperature runs up and down very readily, and it went up so quickly that I was rather uneasy, but it never reached a really alarming height. Good night, Miss Maclean. I hope we shall see you at 'The New' before long." "Thank you; there is nothing I should like better than to work under you at the Women's Hospital," and Mona ran back to Lucy's room. "Now, my baby," she said caressingly, "I will arrange your pillows, and you shall go to sleep like a good child." "Sleep," said Lucy dreamily. "I don't _sleep_. I go through the looking-glass into the queerest, most fantastic world you can imagine. _C'est magnifique--mais--ce n'est pas--le--sommeil._" She roused herself with a slight effort. "About three I go to sleep, and don't wake till ten. How good it will be to see you beside me in the morning!" Mr Reynolds came into the room, kissed the little white hand that lay on the counterpane, and then gave Mona his arm. "You poor child," he said, as they left the room together, "you must be worn out and faint. That is your room, and the sitting-room is just at the foot of the stair. I will leave the door open. Supper is waiting." A very pleasant hour the two spent together. Mona was at her best with Mr Reynolds,--simple, earnest, off her guard; and as for the clergyman, he was almost always at his best now. "I felt quite sure you would come," he said, "but I am ashamed to think of the trouble to which you have been put. I hope you have not had a very tiresome journey?" "I have had a most pleasant journey from Edinburgh. My friend Doris Colquhoun came with me." "Was that the fair young lady with the children? I was going to ask if you knew her. She had a very pleasing face." "Yes; the children don't belong to her, but she has been mothering their weary mother. Doris is such a good woman. She does not care a straw for the petty personal things that most of us are occupied with. Even home comforts are a matter of indifference to her. But for animals, and poor women, and the cause of the oppressed generally, she has the enthusiasm of a martyr." "She looks a mere girl." "She is about my age; but she is so much less self-centred than I am, that she has always seemed to me a good deal older. She is my mother-confessor, and far too indulgent for the post." "'A heart at leisure from itself'?" "Yes, that is Doris all over. I don't believe she ever passed a sleepless night for sorrows of her own. By the way, Lucy says the morphia does not make her sleep."