'I shall go when I am told,' he said--' not a day before.' She looked at him, and understood. It was the first personal word he had said to her since the little interview on her arrival, but it was so modest again, so self-obliterating, that it did not offend her with a sense that he had broken his word when he promised not to speak to her again on intimate subjects. It was sufficient to remind him of it very gently, just to cool him off, so to speak. 'We should all miss you, I am sure,' she said. Charlie did not appear at dinner that evening. He had caught a little chill, it appeared, in the morning, and had gone to bed in a good deal of discomfort, with a somewhat high temperature. Mrs. Brancepeth, though she would not confess to any anxiety, yet felt anxious, and as soon as dinner was over went off to see how he was. She came back before many minutes were over, and signalled to Sybil across the salon, who got up at once and followed her. 'Is there anything wrong?' she asked. 'Yes; I have asked Dr. Thaxter to come and see him. His temperature has risen again. But he asked me if he could see you for a moment; I wish you would go. He is very restless, and I think you might quiet him; for you know,' she said, looking at her, 'I think you can do more for him than any doctor.' Sybil stood there a minute, biting her lip. She had a physical repulsion to illness, which, though it shocked her that she should feel it, yet dominated her. Since she had taken Charlie in hand, she had had daily to wrestle with it, and though, owing to his very satisfactory progress, it had become easier to overcome, yet it was always there. But she decided almost immediately. 'Yes, I will go,' she said, then paused. 'Does he look terrible? Will it shock me?' she asked. Mrs. Brancepeth's eyes lit up with a momentary indignation. 'Ah, what does that matter?' she exclaimed involuntarily. 'No, dear, I did not mean to say that. I know your horror of illness. But go to him; it will not shock you. He is looking rather flushed; his eyes are very bright.' She took Sybil's hands in hers. 'Oh, make him better, make him better!' she said; 'make him want to live!' Entreaty vibrated in her voice, and her hands trembled. Sybil felt immensely sorry for her, and her sorrow overcame her repugnance at what lay before her. Her horror for illness was of the same character as a child's fear of the dark--unreasonable, but overmastering. But in the presence of this mother's anxiety it was conquered for the moment. 'I will do what I can,' she said--' I will do what I honestly can. Are you coming with me?'