Sometimes the silence of the night is broken by the boy's voice calling strongly and loudly for Zéphine. Often he mistakes me for her--often Barbara--catches our hands and covers them with insane kisses. Sometimes he appeals to her by the most madly tender names--names that I think would surprise Mr. Huntley a good deal, and perhaps not altogether please him; sometimes he alludes to past episodes--episodes that perhaps would have done as well to remain in their graves. On such occasions I am dreadfully frightened, and very miserable; but all the same, I cannot help glancing across at Roger, with a sort of triumph in my eyes--sort of _told-you-so_ expression, from which it would have required a loftier nature than mine to refrain. And so the days go on, and I lose reckoning of time. I could hardly tell you whether it were day or night. My legs ache mostly a good deal, and I feel dull and drowsy from want of sleep. But the brunt of the nursing falls upon Barbara. When he was well--even in his best days--Algy was never very reasonable--very considerate--neither, you may be sure, is he so now. It is always Barbara, Barbara, for whom he is calling. God knows I do my best, and so does Roger. No most loving mother could be gentler, or spare himself less, than he does; but somehow we do not content him. It is not to every one that the gift of nursing is vouchsafed. I think I am clumsy. Try as I will, my hands are not so quick and light and deft as hers--my dress rustles more, and my voice is less soothing. And so it is always "Barbara! Barbara!" And Barbara is always there--always ready. The lovely flush that outdid the garden-flowers has left her cheeks indeed, and her eyelids are drooped and heavy; but her eyes shine with as steady a sweetness as ever; for God has lit in them a lamp that no weariness can put out. Sometimes I think that if one of the lovely spirits that wait upon God in heaven were sent down to minister here below, he would not be very different in look and way, and holy tender speech, from our Barbara. Whether it be through her nursing, or by the strength of his own constitution, and the tenacious vitality of youth, or, perhaps, the help of all three, Algy pulls through. I think he has looked Death in the face, as nearly as any one ever did without falling utterly into his cold embrace, but he pulls through. By very slow, small, and faltering steps, he creeps back to convalescence. His recovery is a tedious business, with many tiresome checks, and many ebbings and flowings of the tide of life; but--he lives. Weak as any little tottering child--white as the sheets he lies on; with prominent cheek-bones, and great and languid eyes, he is given back to us. Life, worsted daily in a thousand cruel fights, has gained one little victory. To-day, for the first time, we all three at once leave him--leave him coolly and quietly asleep, and dine together in Mrs. Huntley's little dusk-shaded dining-room.