And under it all, a deeper bliss in bliss, was the thought that Barbara was thinking about him, worrying about him, and being, probably, ten times more unhappy about him than Fanny. After working so long by his side, her separation from him would be intolerable to Barbara; intolerable, very likely, the thought that it was Fanny's turn, now, to be by his side. Every day she brought him a bunch of snowdrops, and every day, as the door closed on her little anxious face, he was sorry for Barbara shut out from his room. Poor little Barbara. Sometimes, when he was feeling well enough, he would call to her: "Come in, Barbara." And she would come in and look at him and put her flowers into his hand and say she hoped he was better. And he would answer: "Not much better, Barbara. I'm very ill." He even allowed Ralph to come and look at him. He would hold his hand in a clasp that he made as limp as possible, on purpose, and would say in a voice artificially weakened: "I'm very ill, Ralph." Dr. Ransome said he wasn't; but Mr. Waddington knew better. It was true that from time to time he rallied sufficiently to comb his own hair before Barbara was let in with her snowdrops, and that he could give orders to Partridge in a loud, firm tone; but he was too ill to do more than whisper huskily to Barbara and Fanny. Then when he felt a little better the trained nurse came, and with the sheer excitement of her coming Mr. Waddington's temperature leapt up again, and the doctor owned that he didn't like that. And Barbara found Fanny in the library, crying. She had been tidying up his writing-table, going over all his papers with a feather brush, and she had come on the manuscript of the Ramblings unfinished. "Fanny--" "Barbara, I know I'm an idiot, but I simply cannot bear it. It was all very well as long as I could nurse him, but now that woman's come there's nothing I can do for him.... I've--I've never done anything all my life for him. He's always done everything for me. And I've been a brute. Always laughing at him.... Think, Barbara, think; for eighteen years never to have taken him seriously. Never since I married him.... I believe he's going to die. Just--just to punish me." "He isn't," said Barbara indignantly, as if she had never believed it herself. "The doctor says he isn't really very ill. The congestion isn't spreading. It was better yesterday." "It'll be worse to-night, you may depend on it. The doctor doesn't _like_ his temperature flying up and down like that." "It'll go down again," said Barbara. "You don't know what it'll do," said Fanny darkly. "Did you ever see such a lamb, such a _lamb_ as he is when he's ill?" "No," said Barbara; "he's an angel." "That's just," said Fanny, "what makes me feel he's going to die.... I wish I were you, Barbara." "Me?" "Yes. You've really helped him. He could never have written his book without you. His poor book." She sat stroking it. And suddenly a horrible memory overcame her, and she cried out: