Lady Frogmore was called to her husband before she had any answer to her question from little Mar. She had asked it with great kindness, with the sweetness of manner which Mary always had with children from the time of her early experiences in the parish with the sturdy little Yorkshire babies--but she had not, to tell the truth, been very deeply interested in the reply. Duke’s little playmate had a certain interest because of Duke, that enormously grown, curiously developed boy, but otherwise--“Good-bye, just now, my little man,” she said, kissing her hand to him. “Lord Frogmore wants me. I shall hear all about it when I come back.” Little Mar crept to the knee of Agnes Hill when Mary went away. He clung to her with a close childish pressure, rubbing his little head against her shoulder. “Why does she call papa Lord Frogmore?” the boy said. “I don’t know, my dear. She has been gone a long time from home--and there are some things that she has forgotten.” “Who is the lady, Aunt Agnes?” “Oh, Mar!” cried Agnes, with a tone of reproach. “I know,” said the little boy. “You told me--but even grown up people, old people, make mistakes, don’t they, sometimes? It must be--a mistake.” Agnes shook her head; but she could not find a word to say. Her heart was like a stone within her. Had such a thing ever been heard of as that a mother should forget her only child! But Mary’s heart was not heavy. She went away lightly through the long corridor to the old lord’s room, and entered it like a sunbeam, smiling on every one. Mary had been a woman easily cast down in her old natural life, an anxious woman, a little apt to take a despondent view. But she was so far from being despondent now that she scarcely showed gravity enough for a sick room. She went in and took her place by the sick bed where her old husband lay, shrunken and worn out, with fever in his eyes, and a painful cough that tore him in two. “I think,” she said, “that already you are looking a great deal better, Frogmore.” “I am afraid the doctors don’t think me better,” said the old lord, “and to be prepared in case of anything that may happen I want to have a very serious talk with you, my dear.” “Nay, Frogmore,” she said, with a beaming smile, “not so very serious. The chief thing is to keep up your spirits. I know by experience that it is half the battle. We shall have plenty of time for serious talks.” “Well, my love, I am willing to hope so,” said Lord Frogmore, with a faint smile. “But it can do us no harm to make sure. There are a few things I am very anxious to talk over with you. I shall be very sorry to leave you alone, my poor Mary, especially now when there are such good hopes. Our life together has not been so cloudless as I had hoped, but you have made me very happy all the same, my dear love. You must never forget that.”