"So far from it, that, under the circumstances, it was the best thing she could have. She has plainly been exhausted, and though I would not exactly recommend the practice in your nursery, I doubt if she could have taken nourishment till she had been composed. She will sleep for an hour or two, and by that time you can get her home, and feed her as usual. I should be more anxious about Lady Rosamond herself," he added, turning to Raymond. "She looks completely worn out. Let me order you a basin of soup." But Rosamond would not hear of it, she must get baby home directly. Raymond advised a fly, but it was recollected that none was attainable between the races and the ball, so the little one was muffled in shawls and cloaks almost to suffocation, and the doctor forced a glass of wine on her mother, and promised to look in the next day. Still they had a delay at the door, caused by the penitent Emma and her aunt, bent on telling how far they had been from intending any harm; how Emma, when carrying the baby out, had been over-persuaded by the cousins she had never disappointed before; how they had faithfully promised to take her home early, long before my lady's return; how she had taken baby's bottle, but how it had got broken; how impossible it had been to move off the ground in the throng; and how the poor baby's inconsolable cries had caused the young nurse to turn aside to see whether her aunt could find anything to prevent her from screaming herself into convulsions. Nothing but the most determined volubility on Mrs. Gadley's part could have poured this into the ears of Raymond; Rosamond either could not or would not heed, pushed forward, past the weeping Emma, and pulled away her dress with a shudder, when there was an attempt to draw her back and make her listen. "Don't, girl," said Raymond. "Don't you see that Lady Rosamond can't attend to you? If you have anything to say, you must come another time. You've done quite enough mischief for the present." "Yes," said the doctor, "tell your brother to put them both to bed, and keep them quiet. I should like to prescribe the same for you, Mr. Poynsett; you don't look the thing, and I suppose you are going to take the ball by way of remedy." Raymond thanked the doctor, but was too much employed in enveloping his passengers to make further reply. It was quite dark, and the fog had turned to misty rain, soft and still, but all pervading, and Rosamond found it impossible to hold up an umbrella as well as to guard the baby, who was the only passenger not soaked and dripping by the time they were among the lighted windows of the village. "Oh, Raymond! Raymond!" she then said, in a husky dreamy voice, "how good and kind you have been. I know there was something that would make you very, very glad!" "Is there?" he said. "I have not met with anything to make me glad for a long time past!"