And so, just as Anthony Castlemaine had once, and but once, set off to walk to the market-town, did his poor young wife--nay, his widow--set off now. She was a good walker, and, so far, enjoyed the journey and the sweet spring day. She saw the same objects of interest (or of non-interest, as people might estimate them) that he had seen: the tall, fine trees, now budding into life: the country carts and waggons; the clumsy milestones; the two or three farm houses lying back amid their barns and orchards. Thus she reached Stilborough, and did her commissions. It was late when she got back to Greylands; five o'clock, and she was dead tired. By the time she reached the Dolphin, she could hardly drag one foot before the other. To walk three miles on a fine day is not much; but to go about afterwards from shop to shop, and then to walk back again is something more. Mrs. Bent, standing at the inn door, saw her, brought her in, and set her down to a substantial tea-table. She told the landlady she had been to Stilborough to make purchases--which would come by the van for her on the morrow, and to be left at the Dolphin, if the Dolphin would kindly take them in. "With pleasure," said Mrs. Bent. "Ned shall take the parcels up to Greylands' Rest." What with the welcome rest to her tired limbs, and what with Mrs. Bent's hospitable tea and gossip, Madame Guise sat longer than she had intended. It was nearly dark when she went over to the Nunnery--for she had brought a toy and some bonbons for Marie. The Grey Sisters received her as kindly as usual; but they told her the little one did not seem very well; and Madame Guise went upstairs to look at her. Marie was in her little bed, by the side of Sister Betsey's. She seemed restless and feverish. Poor Charlotte Guise began to think that perhaps this climate did not agree with her so well as their own. Taking off her things, she sat down to stay with the child. "Mrs. Castlemaine said it would be quite midnight before they got home, as they were to make a very long day, so I am in no hurry for an hour or two," she observed. "Miles will think I am lost; but I will tell him how it is." "Has your little one ever had the measles?" asked Sister Mona. "The measles?" repeated Madame Guise, puzzled for the moment. "Oh, lea rougeoles--pardon my forgetfulness--no she has not. She has never had anything." "Then I think, but I am not sure, that she is sickening for the measles now." "Mon Dieu!" cried the mother in consternation. "It is nothing," said the Sister. "We have nursed dozens of children, and brought them well through it. In a week little Marie will be about again." But Madame Guise, unused to these light ailments, and terribly anxious for her only child, whom she could but look upon, as separated from herself, in the light of a martyr, was not easily reassured. She stayed with the child as long as she dared, and begged that Mr. Parker might be sent for in the morning should Marie be no better.