“I shall do so, of course, but she cannot be here until to-morrow morning, and in the meantime you must be responsible; your maid is perfectly useless.” Mrs. Beresford assented resignedly. She was glad now that they could not take her on the yacht till Thursday. The nurse would have come by then, and she could leave without trouble, and with this consoling prospect in view she even agreed to sit up with Lion that night. Some people would have been touched by the child’s piteous cries for his father, and by the way in which he constantly checked himself with the reminder, “Daddy’s gone away; I must take care of mamma now.” But Mrs. Beresford only found it wearisome, and tried to bury herself in her book. She knew, however, that it would not do to forget the nourishment that the doctor had ordered, and rousing herself at last she tried to light the spirit-lamp. The most simple things of everyday life were mysteries to her, and as she bent over it, candle in hand, there was a flare and a scream, and Lettice rushed into the room to find her mistress’s hair in flames. Help was summoned, and the doctor sent for, but he made short work of her complaints. “There’s not much harm done,” he said bluntly. “I daresay your hair will grow; your skin will never look the same again, but, after all, that doesn’t matter.” And this to one whose chief joy in life had been the beauty of her complexion! Mrs. Beresford hid her bandaged face in the pillows and gave herself up to despair. No hope of going on the yacht now. They would sail away and forget all about her, or, worse still, make ill-natured remarks about her misfortune. At any rate, no one should see her altered appearance, and she had the blinds pulled down, and admitted no one but Lettice into her room. But the day came when the hospital nurse forced an entrance into the forbidden precincts. She and the doctor had held many an indignant conclave over their little patient, and when his perpetual inquiries for his mother could be silenced in no other way, she made up her mind to fetch her. Her words were few, but they made an impression that Mrs. Beresford could not resist, for however indifferent she might appear, she knew that she should not dare to face her husband if the child should die without her seeing him. Her resolution almost failed as she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass that had once reflected such a lovely vision, but it was too late to turn back now, and she crossed the passage and entered the sick-room. There on the bed lay Lion, his curls gone, his face hollow and deathlike, but when he saw her he held out his hands with a cry, “Oh, please say forgive!” “What does he mean?” she asked. “I don’t know,” said the nurse, “he has been saying it ever since I came. You had better speak to him.” “What do you want, Lion?” she said, repressing a shudder as she went up to the bedside.