In the dusk of evening, when the house was quiet, and Mrs. Darling sat by the bedside, her brain almost as busy as the one she was there to guard, the thought arose to her that she would put at rest (as far as it could be put to rest) a question that troubled her. In closing the nursery-door quietly--as it had been represented the unfortunate child did close it--would the bolt slip into its groove? Was it possible that it could do so? Mrs. Darling had pondered the doubt that day more than she would have cared to tell. Rising from her chair, she was about to cross the room when some one came in. "Who's that?" sharply called out Mrs. Darling, somewhat startled. It was only one of the under-maids, bringing in some beef-tea in a cup. "How quietly you must have come up!" exclaimed Mrs. Darling. "I have list shoes on, ma'am," replied the girl. She put down the cup and advanced on tiptoe to take a glance at Honour. The fever still continued, the brain was still at work; but just now the head was quiet. "She seems a trifle better!" cried the girl. "I fear not in mind," answered Mrs. Darling. "Her last fancy seems to be that _she_ set fire to the child, and then ran away and left him." "Poor creature! Well, so in a manner she did, ma'am, for it was through her want of caution that it happened." The girl gazed a few minutes and went down. Mrs. Darling--by the way, was that last assertion of hers a true one or a flight of fancy?--listened to the receding footsteps. She thought she heard them come back again, those or others, but silence supervened, and she concluded she was mistaken. Now or never! She did want to try that door, and the opportunity seemed favourable: for she would not for the whole world, no, nor for ten worlds, suffer it to be known that any doubt could enter her mind, or any one's mind, upon the point. Quitting Honour's room, she stepped to the nursery-door, and there--paused. What feeling came over Mrs. Darling at the moment she could never afterwards tell. Had she been of a superstitious nature it might have been accounted for; but she was not. Some feeling or impulse, however, did cause her to walk away from the door without entering, and go on to the dressing-room, intending to see if she could try the experiment from that side. As she quitted it she could have declared she heard a chair move within, only that she knew she must be mistaken. She went with soft tread across the dressing-room carpet in the twilight of the evening. The door stood half open; to her surprise; for since the fatal night it had been kept rigidly shut. She was about to pull it to, when it was closed from the other side, pretty smartly. In her consternation she opened it at once, and--stood face to face with Surgeon Pym. He had been trying the experiment on his own score.