Queenie was sadly disturbed by the child's restlessness during that day and the next; all her sweet placidity seemed gone. She was feverish and eager; it was difficult to soothe her. She started at every sound; an opening door, even the stoppage of vehicles in the street, would bring the flush to her white face, and she would sit up among her pillows, palpitating and expectant. "What is it, Emmie darling? What is the matter?" Queenie would say to her over and over again. "Oh, it is nothing; I am only very silly," the child would answer, sinking back with a disappointed face. Of course her letter had not reached him, it was such a long, long way off. How was it possible for him to come yet? And then a new fear tormented her. If he delayed at all, if he took a long time to think about it, would he be in time? It was on the evening of the second day when this fresh thought began to harass her. The day had been hot and thundery, and she had suffered much from the oppression of the atmosphere. When Dr. Bennet saw her that night he let fall a word or two that stirred Queenie's numb pain to sharp, positive agony. "You think she is worse, Dr. Bennet? I can read it in your face," she asked, her poor hands working with the effort to keep calm. "I think there is a change of some sort; you must be prepared for anything now, my dear Miss Marriott. Poor little soul, one cannot wish her to suffer," continued the warm-hearted doctor, who had daughters of his own. "No; I do not wish her to suffer, God forbid that I should be so selfish; but oh, Emmie!" and then she turned away, lest the bitter flood of her sorrow should overwhelm her. There would be time enough to weep when her work was finished, she needed all her strength for Emmie now. But that night there was no sleep for her eyes. Hour after hour she sat beside the failing child; fanning her softly, watching her through her short intervals of sleep, and listening to the dull lapping of the waves on the sand. Once she dozed off and lost herself. The shaded sick-room had disappeared, the monotonous wash of the surge had lulled to sleep her drowsy ear. She was at Church-Stile House again. There was the plane-tree walk, and the church. The little gate swung lightly on its hinges; a dark, handsome face looked in at the window and smiled at her; and she woke with a start to find raindrops pattering against the window, and the night-lamp paling beside the grey dawn. "I don't think that I shall get up to-day, so I shall not tire your poor arms," was Emmie's plaintive remark that morning. "Do you feel weaker, my darling? would you rather be spared the trouble of dressing?" "Yes; I would rather lie still and be quiet. If you open the folding doors I can see a little bit of the sea, and it does not sound so loud here. I think it is coming, Queen; and oh, I did want to be a little longer with you!"