"I can't tell. I thought so, from some of her answers to the doctor's questions. But she hides her feelings so carefully—except when she begins to wander. It's a mercy I stopped their going on; she might never have reached Dr. Bryant's alive. And the poor child with her—" "Yes, indeed. Is Prue upstairs, now?" "Prue will be in charge till half-past ten; and then I shall take her for the night. If Prue wants me, she will ring." Bertha went softly into the drawing room; and found Lettice there, heavily asleep, lying flat in a position of profound weariness. The child-like sweetness of her face impressed Bertha as it had impressed Mrs. Valentine. One hand was thrown out unconsciously; and Wallace drew Bertha's attention to the discoloured wrist. "Nan's doing," he muttered. "Nan doesn't know the strength of her own muscles. Poor little thing!" "She's dead beat—hasn't slept for nights." "Keep her quiet for the present. By-and-by she must go to bed. Our coming in and out doesn't wake her." "A thunder-clap wouldn't, I believe. But I promised one thing. If Miss Anderson wants her—that's to say, if you tell me Miss Anderson wants her—I must rouse her up." Bertha was silent; and Wallace did not look up, or ask questions. He had worded his promise carefully, and he now repeated it carefully, relieving his conscience, and shifting responsibility from himself to Bertha. She stood silent, conjecturing how far she might be bound by Wallace's promise. Cecilia did want Lettice, and asked for her incessantly: yet it was better for the two to be apart, at least for a while, and to awaken Lettice now would be absolute cruelty. Bertha could not do it, looking on the wan little face. "Wallace had no authority to promise for me: and if I do not speak, he need not act," she decided, and moved away. An hour later, finding Lettice still asleep, her resolution remained the same. She had the child carried upstairs and put to bed in Prue's room: and Lettice never opened her eyes. "It will not do. I must risk delay," Bertha said. Six o'clock in the morning. The long night was over at last: a night long both to the invalid and to her nurse. Bertha would have no help. She knew what to do, and Prue was forbidden to come before a certain hour, unless summoned. If Cecilia Anderson lived through the night, hope would revive; hope, at least, of a temporary rally. Again and again this "if" seemed to hang on the merest spider-line. Again and again Bertha actually held in her hand the bell-rope, one pull of which would summon Wallace, to be sent to Prue, with word that Lettice must come. He did not know how the sick woman cried out for Lettice, in her half-wandering state. He had heard an occasional call, as he passed near the room, but no words were to be distinguished. Bertha was resolved that Miss Anderson should not pass away without a sight of the child; but also she was resolved not to call Lettice sooner than might be essential.