“Ronnie is worse,” he said shortly. There was a change in him. He had pulled himself together. His voice was stronger. “He’s worse. I must go at once. Don’t wait dinner, and don’t sit up. I may have to stay all night.” When he had gone, Elizabeth went upstairs to unpack. Mrs. Havergill followed her. “You ’avn’t been in this room since Mrs. Blake was took.” “It’s a very nice room,” said Elizabeth. “All this furniture,” said Mrs. Havergill, “come out of the ’ouse in the ’Igh Street. That old mahogany press, Mrs. Blake set a lot of store by, and the bed, too. Ah! pore thing, I suppose she little thought as ’ow she’d come to die in it.” The bed was a fine old four-poster, with a carved foot-rail. Elizabeth went past it to the windows, of which there were three, set casement fashion, at the end of the room, with a wide low window-seat running beneath them. She got rid of Mrs. Havergill without hurting her feelings. Then she knelt on the seat, and looked out. She saw the river beneath her, and a line of trees in the first green mist of their new leaves. The river was dark and bright in patches, and the wind sang above it. Elizabeth’s heart was glad of this place. It was a thing she loved—to see green trees and bright water, and to hear the wind go by above the stream. When she had unpacked and put everything away, she stood for a moment, and then opened the door that led through into David’s room. It was getting dark in here, for the room faced the east. Elizabeth went to the window and looked out. The sky was full of clouds, and the promise of rain. It was very late before David came home. At ten, Elizabeth sent the servants to bed. There was cold supper laid in the dining-room, and soup in a covered pan by the side of the fire. Elizabeth sat by the lamp and sewed. Every now and then she lifted her head and listened. Then she sewed again. At twelve o’clock David put his key into the latch, and the door opened with a little click and then shut again. David was a long time coming in. He came in slowly, and sat down upon the first chair he touched. “He’ll do,” he said in an exhausted voice. “I’m so glad,” said Elizabeth. She knelt by the fire, and poured some of the soup into a cup. Then she held it out to him, and he drank, taking long draughts. After that she put food before him, and he ate in a dazed, mechanical fashion. When he had finished, he sat staring at Elizabeth, with his elbows on the table, and his head between his hands. “Ronnie is asleep—he’ll do.” And then with sudden passion: “My God, if I could sleep!” “You will, David,” said Elizabeth. She put her hand on his arm, and he turned his head a little, still staring at her. “No, I don’t sleep,” he said. “Everything else sleeps—_Die Vöglein ruhen im Walde_. How does it go?” “_Warte nur, balde ruhest du auch_,” said Elizabeth in her tranquil voice.