"Humor her as much as possible," he said. "When she gets her own way, she'll go to sleep. Her pulse is better and she has no temperature. I'll send Nash along," and with a friendly smile he hurried downstairs. Miriam had just given Mrs. Nash a drink of water when the clergyman came in. Mrs. Nash's sharp, black eyes detected his constrained manner as he spoke to Miriam and her equally stiff acknowledgment of his greeting. Turning her back upon Nash, Miriam addressed his wife. "I will wait in the alcove in the hall until your husband leaves," she said. "If you wish anything, please let me know." Nash remained standing until the hall door closed behind Miriam and then he seated himself in a chair by his wife's bed. "I am so thankful that you are better, Dora," he said, taking her hand in both his and raising it to his lips. "So very, very thankful to a merciful Providence." "Save some of your thanks for Miss Ward," she remarked dryly. "She gave Providence a helping hand. By the way, you don't seem to like her." "My dear Dora!" "Why not?" she persisted, ignoring his interjection. Nash sighed. Custom had taught him respect for his wife's tenacity, but there were times when he wanted to shake her. "She, eh--reh--has an agreeable personality," he began. "I am grateful to her for what she has done for you, but I, eh, really, my dear, haven't given her much thought." "Oh!" Nash squirmed uneasily under her unswerving gaze. "Oh!" repeated Mrs. Nash, and her intonation conveyed much or little according to her husband's perception. "And Betty, where is she?" The rapid change of topic confused Nash, his slower wits failing to keep up with his wife's trend of thought. "She is downstairs," he stated. "That is, I left her there talking to Alan and Roberts." "She ought to be in bed," declared Mrs. Nash, with ill-concealed irritability. "Traipsing around the countryside by herself at night. Did she reach the cemetery?" "Yes." Nash cleared his throat. "The attendant at the vault told me that she had gone to Trenholm's, two miles the other side of the cemetery; so Pierre drove me there and I brought her home." Mrs. Nash looked down at the old-fashioned, handmade quilt and studied its pattern and cross stitch intently. "Betty is a great responsibility," she said, glancing over at her husband. "Her eccentric conduct, her total lack of thought for others--" "She is young," broke in Nash with some vehemence and his wife changed color. "And youth is selfish." "If that were all--" Mrs. Nash spoke under her breath and her husband failed to catch what she said. He did not care to break the pause and, as the silence lengthened, Mrs. Nash's thoughts reverted to the past.