"I don't think so either," Miriam said. CHAPTER XXVII Uncle Alfred in a trap and Rupert on foot arrived at the same moment on Saturday, and while Rupert asked quick questions about Mildred Caniper, the other listened in alarm. He was astonished to feel Helen's light touch leading him to the corner where the hats were hanging, to hear her low voice in his ear. "Pretend that's why you've come!" He whispered back, "Where is she?" "In bed." "Miriam?" "No, no. Dressing up for you!" "Ah," he said, relieved, but he felt he was plunged into melodrama. Nothing else could be expected of a family which had exiled itself mysteriously in such a wilderness, but he felt himself uncomfortably out of place and he straightened his tie and gave his coat a correcting pull before he went into the schoolroom, where John and Lily were sitting by the fire. "We're all waiting for the doctor," Helen explained. "Ah!" Uncle Alfred said again, on a different note. He clasped his hands behind his back and nodded, and in spite of this inadequate contribution he conveyed an impression of stiff sympathy, and gave the youthful gathering the reassurance of his age as they made a place for him by the fire. "I'm jolly glad you're here," Rupert said cordially, and Uncle Alfred, not used to a conspirator's part, stole a glance at Helen. She was standing near him; her stillness was broken by constant tiny movements, like ripples on a lake; she looked from one face to another as though she anticipated and watched the thoughts behind, and was prepared to combat them. "I wish you'd sit down," Lily said, as Helen went to the window and looked out. "Yes, sit down, sit down," said Uncle Alfred, and he stood up, pointing to his chair. "No; I'm listening, thank you," Helen said. The nurse's heavy tramp thudded across the room above, and her steps had something in them of finality, of the closing of doors, the shutting down of lids, the impenetrability of earth. Sitting next to John, with her arm in his, Lily moved a little. Her eyes were full of pity, not so much for the woman upstairs, or for the Canipers, as because the emotions of these people were not the heartily unmixed ones which she had suffered when her own mother died. "He's a long time," Helen said. She went into the hall and passed Miriam, in a black dress, with her hair piled high and a flush of colour on her cheeks. "He's in there," Helen said with a wave of her hand, and speaking this time of Uncle Alfred.