“Please do not say anything to me,” I returned, on the verge of crying. “Dear little Reggie is all right, and I am only too thankful. Tell me about my mistress, Mr. Morton; we are all so anxious about her.” I thought he looked a little strangely at me. He held out his hand without speaking. That hearty grasp spoke volumes. Then he cleared his throat and said, quickly, “She does not know; I have not told her; she is very weak and ill. Dr. Myrtle says we must take great care of her; she has been over-exerting herself.” To my dismay and his I burst into tears, but I was not quite myself, liable to be upset by a word. “Oh, she is always over-exerting herself; she does more every day than her strength will allow,” I cried, almost hysterically. “It makes one’s heart ache to see her so worn out and yet so patient. Oh, Mr. Morton, do let me come home and nurse her; she is never happy without the children; it will do her good to see them; she frets after them too, and it makes her ill. Do let me come home; there is nothing I would not do for her.” I heard him beg me to be calm. I was ill myself, I heard him say, and no wonder, and he looked pityingly at my bandages. “I only wish you could come back to us, Miss Fenton,” he went on, so kindly that I was ashamed of giving way so. “The home feels very empty, and I think it would do my dear wife good to have the children’s feet pattering overhead. She is too weak to have them with her just now, but it would be pleasant to know they were near.” I pleaded again that we might come home, and he smiled indulgently. “You must get well first,” he said, gently, “and then I will come and fetch you all back myself. Just now you require nursing, and are better where you are; and it is still hot in London, and the sea breezes will benefit the children a little longer. Come, you will be sensible about this, Miss Fenton.” And then, as Gay joined us, he turned to her and reiterated his opinion that I must stay at Marshlands until I was well. Of course, Gay agreed with him; but I thought she was a little graver than usual. I knew Mr. Morton was right. I was no use to anyone just now; but, all the same, it made me feel very unhappy to see him go away and leave us behind. He could not stay any longer, he said, for fear of arousing his wife’s suspicions. He should just tell her he had run down to have a peep at the children; that would please her, he knew. He bade me good-bye very kindly, and told me to keep up my courage, and not lose heart. I could see he was not vexed with me for giving way. No doubt he attributed it all to weakness.