Quiet! It was indeed this very quietude of suffering that terrified her. From such an extremity of pain she felt herself separated by all her own young vitality as from death itself. Here the science of her heart failed her. This inert woman, moaning like a suffering animal, seemed something horribly different from her beautiful aunt. Baby dared not touch her; she could not even find a word for her. "Speak to her, you, Jani," she whispered. Jani obediently approached the bed and, bending towards her mistress, poured forth a flood of Hindustani. Failing to make an impression, she seized the clasped hands in her claw-like grip and shook them. Then Rosamond raised her head and turned a vacant look. Her face was drawn beyond recognition; Baby saw a slow tear gather and roll down into the open mouth. Anything more forlorn, more hopeless, the girl thought she had never beheld. As the golden head drooped once more into its broken attitude, Baby, her own tears springing scalding to her eyes, turned determinedly to Jani: "I will get old Mary," she cried; and, seizing her candle again, pattered from the room, all her previous terrors swallowed up in the single huge anxiety. Instinctively Aspasia felt that if Lady Gerardine’s reason, nay, her life itself, were to be saved, help must be forthcoming. And the only help she could think of was that of the mystic sorrow-experienced old servant of the family. Old Mary, whose spirit seemed already a dweller of those regions where from the point of view of the eternal nothing finite can surprise, was soon ready at Aspasia’s summons. "Yes, Miss Cuningham, I’ll come. Eh, the poor lady! Don’t you fret yourself, miss, she’s in God’s hands." The very sight of her, so promptly robed in her everyday black with the white cap tied under her chin, and the familiar little shawl over her shoulders, was enough to inspire confidence. Baby’s tremors were calming down into hopefulness when they entered Lady Gerardine’s room together. "Eh, the poor lady," cried old Mary again, after one glance at the bed. Then she approached, and took her mistress’ hands into hers: "My Lady," she said, "what ails you?" If anything could have called Rosamond back from her deep slough of despond it was this appellation from lips that had hitherto so sweetly acknowledged her only as widow. The voice and words pierced to her brain. She reared her head quickly. "Why do you call me that?" "My Lady!" The arrival of Sir Arthur Gerardine had made a distinct impression upon the housekeeper’s half-dreaming mind. Lady Gerardine wrenched her hands from the withered clasp, and clapped them over her ears. "My Lady! my Lady!" she cried wildly, "I am not Lady Gerardine, I never was Lady Gerardine; I am Mrs. English, Mrs. English. Don’t you know it?—you of all women!" "Ma’am!" ejaculated old Mary, while Aspasia nipped her arm, with warning fingers.