A harder fiat could hardly have been uttered, than that which kept Lettice in her own room, and away from Cecilia. She did not see any need for the prohibition. In matters of health, many people are apt to count themselves worse than they are, a few to count themselves better than they are; and Lettice belonged to the minority. True she felt desperately tired: her head ached, and exertion was a struggle: but what of all that? What did it matter—what did anything matter—side by side with the fact that Cecilia wanted her? By nature patient and enduring, as regarded any bodily discomfort of her own, she was neither patient nor enduring when withheld from doing the will of one whom she loved. Submission to the Divine Will was as yet an unknown element in the life of Lettice. Because she passionately loved her sister and brother, she would have done aught, borne aught for them. Because she did not love God, His Will was not dear to her: and she chafed against it. Not worry herself! They might tell her not to do so, but how could she obey when she thought of Cecilia, ill and among strangers, parted from Felix, and craving the younger sister who might not go to her? "Keep that child quiet for two or three days," had been the doctor's order on the morning after their arrival. "A sensitive child—the strain has been too severe, and she is ripe for pretty nearly anything. No; I don't think she'll be ill, if we take her in hand at once: but she must rest. How old do you say? Nearly sixteen! She doesn't look more than fourteen. Well, the two are best apart for a few days. Unless what?—Yes, of course—if Miss Anderson were taken suddenly worse—but I must leave that to your discretion. At present she will have all she needs in your care and your sister's. The child could do nothing further. You are good Samaritans to take them both in, after this fashion. It is the sort of Christianity which a man respects." After the first day or two, Lettice was allowed to dress, and to sit in a cosy arm-chair near the window, looking out upon a garden, which in summer was lovely, and which even in winter had some beauty of its own. Lettice could not enjoy that beauty. She could enjoy nothing if she might not go to Cecilia: and at present she was a prisoner in Prue's room. She sat there hour after hour, doing nothing, declining to be interested, going round and round in the same circle of thought. Always, how was Cecilia? what was Cecilia doing? did Cecilia miss her greatly? And might she soon be with Cecilia? She could not acquiesce in her deprivation. Her eyes were intent ever upon the door, her ears were intent for footsteps beyond the door. At this rate she was not likely to recover tone and strength quickly. Prue coming in on the fourth morning, with the usual remark, "Not yet," met a face of despair which went to her heart.