“Yes, yes,” he said, soothing her, “but nothing could have saved her, you know. Dr. Myrtle told you so; and you were only spared the pain of seeing her suffer. Try to be sensible about it, my dearest; our baby has been ill, but everything has been done for him; and now he is relieved, poor little fellow. We have to thank you for that, Miss Fenton. How nicely you are holding him! he looks as comfortable as possible,” touching the boy’s cheek with his forefinger. “Now, my love, let me relieve you of this cumbrous thing,” taking off her coronet; “this mantle will unfasten, too, I see. Now, suppose you put on your dressing-gown, and ask Travers to make you and Miss Fenton some tea. I will not be so cruel as to tell you to go to bed”—as she looked at him, pleadingly. “If you were a wise woman you would go, but I suppose I must humour you; but you must get rid of all this frippery.” “Oh, Alick, how good you are!” she said, gratefully, and in a few minutes more she returned in her warm, quilted dressing gown, with her hair simply braided; she looked even more beautiful than she had done as Berengaria. Mr. Morton soon left us after placing his wife in my charge. The night passed very quickly away after that. When Reggie stirred I put him in his cot, and begged Mrs. Morton to lie down on the bed beside him. She did not refuse; emotion had exhausted her, but her eyes never closed. She told me long afterwards she dared not sleep, lest the old dream should torment her of the dead baby’s hand, that she could never warm with all her efforts. “I can feel it quite icy cold in mine, and sometimes there is a little cold face on my bosom, but nothing ever warms them, and when I wake up I am shivering too.” I could not tell what was passing through the poor mother’s mind, but I did not like the feverish look in her wide, distended eyes. Mr. Morton was right, and the shock of her boy’s illness had utterly unnerved her. I thought, perhaps she was blaming herself needlessly, and yet never was there a human being more utterly devoid of vanity and selfishness; she was simply sacrificing her maternal duties to her husband’s ambition; of her own accord she would never have entered a ball-room; I am sure of that. I longed to soothe her, and yet I hardly knew what to say. Presently she shivered, and I covered her up carefully with all the wraps I could find, and then knelt down and chafed her hands. “You cannot sleep, Mrs. Morton; I am so sorry, and yet you are tired out.” “I do not want to sleep,” she answered. “I dream badly sometimes, and I would rather lie awake and listen to my boy’s breathing; he is sleeping nicely, Merle.” “Yes, indeed; there is no need for anxiety now, and I am watching him carefully.” “Oh, I can trust you,” with a faint smile; “I trusted you from the first moment. But, my poor girl, I am afraid you are very tired, and I have taken your bed from you.” “I would rather see you resting there, Mrs. Morton.”