They drew up the blind of the landing window, and saw daylight creeping over the next-door yard. "Do you think she's going to be very bad, miss?" "I don't know; I can't tell. Hurry, Ellen, there's a good girl! get back as quickly as you can!" A deep flush had overspread the face on the pillow. The eyes yearned, and an agonised expression strengthened Mary's belief in the gravity of the seizure; she feared it to be the beginning of inflammation of the lungs. Three-quarters of an hour must be allowed for Kincaid to arrive, and, conscious that she could now do nothing but wait, the time lagged dreadfully. The silence, banished at the earlier pealing of the bell, had regained its dynasty, and once more a wide hush settled upon the house, indicated by the occasional clicking of a cinder on the fender. At intervals the sick woman uttered a tremulous sigh, and met Mary's gaze with a look of appeal, as if she recognised in her presence a kind of protective sympathy; but she had ceased to complain, and the watcher abstained from any active demonstration. In the globe beside the mirror the gas flared brightly, and this, coupled with the heat of the fire, filled the room with a moist radiance, against which the narrow line of dawn above the window-sill grew slowly more defined. The advent had been long expected, when sharp footfalls on the pavement smote Mary's ear, and, forgetting that Kincaid had his own key, she sprang up to let him in. The hall-door swung back, and she paused with her hand on the banisters. He came swiftly forward and passed her with a hurried salutation on the stairs. There was, however, no anxiety visible on his face as he approached the bed. Merely a little genial concern was to be seen. His questions were put encouragingly; when a reply was given, he listened with an air of confidence confirmed. "Am I very ill?" she gasped. "You _feel_ very ill, I dare say, dear; but don't go persuading yourself you _are_, or that'll be a real trouble!" His fingers were on her pulse, and he was smiling as he spoke. Yet he knew that her life was in danger. The worthiest acting is done where there is no applause--it is the acting of a clever medical man in a sick-room. Mary stood on the threshold watching him. "Who put that funnel on the kettle?" he inquired, without turning. He had not appeared to notice it. "I did," she answered. "Am I to take it off?" "No." He signed to her to go below, and after a few minutes followed her into the parlour. "Give me a pen and ink, Miss Brettan, please." "I've put them ready for you," she said. He wrote hastily, and rose with the prescription held out. "Where's Ellen?" "Here, waiting to take it." A trace of surprise escaped him. He said curtly: "You're thoughtful. Was it you who put on that poultice?" Her tone was as distant as his. "We did all we could before you came; _I_ put on the poultice. Did I do right?" "Quite right. I asked because of the way it was put on."