Ralph protested no further, indeed his one desire was to return to his wife, but catching sight of Myra, he paused to inquire after the child. “Evereld keeps asking if it is all right,” he said. “And the doctor, who would say anything to quiet her, assures her it is all it ought to be. Do you think there is really a hope that it will live?” “I know so little about such things,” said Myra, with a sick remembrance of the jealous feelings that had stirred within her on first learning of Evereld’s hopes. “He is the tiniest little fellow I ever saw, but there seems nothing amiss with him. Hark! there is a ring at the door bell. It must be the nurse at last. We will see what she says to him.” Ralph, who had vaguely expected a sort of Mrs. Gamp, was relieved to see a comely middle-aged woman with a refined and sensible face, and that wonderful air of composure and capable quietness which makes a trained nurse so unlike an amateur. She praised all that Myra had done and declared that with care the child would do well enough, and Ralph, looking for the first time at the little doll-like face of his son felt a sudden sense of hope and joy and relief which carried him through the dark hours of that night of anxiety and suspense. For all night long Evereld lay between life and death. The younger doctor who had been called in despaired of saving her, and Ralph knew it, though no one actually put the thought into words. He knew it by the man’s face, and by the sound of effort in the voice of his first friend, cheery Doctor Grey. Evereld was dying from exhaustion, and from the terrible shock she had undergone. Still like a true Denmead he clung to hope, and held his fear at arm’s length; every word of encouragement that fell from Dr. Grey’s lips helping him to keep up. Her age was in her favour, her patience, her great firmness and courage all would stand her in good stead; so said the old doctor; and Ralph hoped against hope until at last about sunrise a change set in. Even the younger doctor grew sanguine. Evereld’s hold upon life was evidently growing firmer. She looked up at Ralph and smiled. “What day is it?” she asked, for pain knows no time limits and she had no notion whether hours or days had gone by. “It is Tuesday morning,” he said stooping down to kiss her, a rapturous sense of relief filling his heart. She seemed to meditate for a few minutes, and obediently took the gruel the nurse brought her. “Why!” she exclaimed presently. “It is your first night in Hamlet, and you will be tired out. Go and rest, darling.” “The best rest is to see you growing better,” he said tenderly. After another interval she asked about the child. “Do you want to see him?” asked the young doctor, hailing as a good sign her return of interest. “Not now, later on” she said quietly. “I will try to sleep first. I’m sure I could sleep if you would go and rest, Ralph.” “Quite right, you are a wise little woman, Mrs. Denmead,” said Dr. Grey.