Towards morning she dropped into a heavy sleep, and had slept longer than usual. This caused her to be late in dressing, and brought upon her the reproof of punctual Miss Bettina. She looked at herself in the glass ere she went down; at her pale face, her heavy eyelids; hoping, trusting they would escape observation. What a happy thing it is that others cannot read our faces as we read them! Miss Bettina was at the head of the breakfast-table. She was suffering from a cold; but, ill or well, she was sure to be at her post and Dr. Davenal stood at the fire, his elbow on the mantelpiece, his forehead leaning on his hand. Sara went up to him, and he seemed to rouse himself from a reverie as he kissed her. She noticed how ill he looked. "Papa, I am sure you are worse!" "I don't feel very well, child." "If you would but stay at home for a day or two and nurse yourself!" "Ah! I have not time. There's a great deal of sickness about, and my patients must not be neglected." "Mark Cray can attend to them." "To the light cases he could. Not the serious ones; I wouldn't trust them to him." "Not trust them to him?" echoed Sara. The surprised tone of the question aroused Dr. Davenal; he had spoken out too heedlessly his real thoughts. "People dangerously ill have naturally more confidence in me than in a young man," he said, by way of doing away with the impression his avowal might make. They took their places at the breakfast-table, neither of then able to eat; the doctor from sickness of body, for he was really ill, Sara from sickness of mind. "Aunt Bettina, I tell papa he ought not to go out today." "Not going out today?" repeated Miss Bettina. "Why not? What's he going to do, then?" "I say he ought not to go out. He is not well enough." Miss Bettina heard this time. She raised her eyes and gazed at the doctor. It was impossible not to see that he did look ill. "What's the matter with you, Richard?" "It is only my cold," said the doctor. "It has settled here," touching his chest. "That's just where mine is settling," grimly returned Aunt Bettina. "Papa's eating nothing," said Sara. "As if I could eat, with the skin off my throat and chest!" retorted Miss Bettina, mistaking the words, as usual. "It seems that nobody's eating this morning; you are not: we might as well not have had the breakfast laid. Toast was made to be eaten, Miss Sara Davenal, not to be wastefully crumbled into bits on the plate. I suppose _you_ have not got a cold?" Sara began to pick up the crumbs and the pieces, and to swallow them as she best could. Anything to escape particular observation. "I wonder how Mrs. Cray is this morning?" she presently observed, having ransacked her brains for a subject to speak upon. Miss Bettina heard all awry. "Oswald Cray! Why should you wonder how he is? Is he ill?"