“I wish I need not have told you all this, Merle,” she finished. “It has made you paler than you were before. Violet has never been strong since Joyce was born, but I do not see that there is any need for special anxiety.” But though Gay insisted on taking a cheerful view of things, I could not bring my spirits to her level. I felt nervous and unaccountably depressed. I had not sufficiently recovered from the effects of the accident to bear the least suspense with equanimity. In spite of my efforts to be quiet and self-controlled, I grew restless and irritable; the least noise jarred on me; it was a relief when Hannah took the children out and I had the nursery to myself. My nervous fancies haunted my dreams that night, and I woke so unrefreshed that Gay scolded me for not getting better more quickly, and pretended to laugh at my dismal face when I heard there was no letter from Mr. Morton. “It is nonsense your fretting about those letters, Merle,” she said, in her brisk way. “Alick has them by this time, and we shall hear from him before evening. Do, pray, pull yourself together, and I will ask Dr. Staples if a drive will not do you good; your indoor life does not suit you.” I did not contradict her, but I knew there would be no drive for me that day; perfect quiet and rest were all I wanted, and I knew Dr. Staples would be of my opinion. The afternoon was showery, so the children played about the nursery. I did not admit Rolf, for his noisy ways would have been too much for me, but he was very good, and promised to stay with Judson if he might come to me a little in the evening. I had gone into the night nursery to lie down for an hour when I heard footsteps coming down the passage. The next moment I heard Mr. Morton’s voice speaking to Gay. “You can go in and see the children, Alick,” she said, “and I will join you directly, when Adelaide has finished with me;” and then Joyce called out “Fardie,” and I could hear Reggie stumping across the floor. I waited a few minutes before I made my appearance. Much as I longed to see Mr. Morton, I thought he would rather meet his children alone. I almost felt as though I intruded when I opened the door. Hannah was not there, and he was sitting in my rocking-chair with Reggie in his arms, and his head was bowed down on the little fellow’s shoulder. He started up when he heard me, but I never saw him look so pale and agitated. I knew then that he was a man of strong feelings, that his children were more to him than I had dreamed. “Miss Fenton,” he began, and then he bit his lips and turned away to the window. I saw he could hardly speak, and there was Reggie patting his face and calling “Fada, fada,” to make him smile. “Reggie is quite well,” I said, feeling the silence awkward. “Yes, yes,” quite abruptly, “I see he is; thank God for that mercy; but, Miss Fenton, you have suffered in his stead. You are looking ill, unlike yourself. What am I to say to you? How am I to thank you?”