Mrs. Kingsward was lying with her face towards the door, watching, in a blaze of excitement and fever. Her eyes had never been so bright nor her colour so brilliant. She was breathing quickly, panting, with her heart very audible to herself, pumping in her ears, and almost audible in the room, so evident was it that every pulse was at fever speed. “What have you been telling Bee, doctor? What have you been telling Bee? What----” When she had begun this phrase it did not seem as if she could stop repeating it again and again. “I have been telling her that she may sit with you, my dear lady, on condition of being very quiet, very quiet,” said the doctor. “It’s a great promotion at her age. She has promised to sit very still, and talk very little, and hush her mamma to sleep. It is you who must be the baby to-night. If you can get a good long quiet sleep, it will do you all the good in the world. Yes, you may hold her hand if you like, my dear, and pat it, and smooth it--a little gentle mesmerism will do no harm. That, my dear lady, is what I have been telling Miss Bee.” “Oh, doctor,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “don’t you know she has had great trouble herself, poor child? Poor little Bee! At her age I was married and happy; and here is she, poor thing, plunged into trouble. Doctor, you know, there is a--gentleman----” Mrs. Kingsward had raised herself upon her elbow, and the panting of her breath filled all the room. “Another time--another time you shall tell me all about it. But I shall take Miss Bee away, and consign you to a dark room, and silence, if you say another word----” “Oh, don’t make my room dark! I like the light. I want my child. Let me keep her, let me keep her! Who should--comfort her--but her mother?” “Yes, so long as you keep quiet. If you talk I will take her away. Not a word--not a word--till to-morrow.” In spite of himself there was a change in the doctor’s voice as he said that word--or Bee thought so--as if there might never be any to-morrow. The girl felt as if she must cry out, shriek aloud, to relieve her bursting brain, but did not, overborne by his presence and by the new sense of duty and self-restraint. “Come now,” he went on, “I am very kind to let you have your little girl by you, holding your hand--don’t you think so? Go to sleep, both of you. If you’re quite, quite, quiet you’ll both doze, and towards the morning I’ll look in upon you again. Now, not another word. Good-night, good-night.”