Ralph allowed himself to be taken off by the younger doctor, seeing that they thought it best he should go. They paused on the way down to visit the next room, where the good-natured landlady sat in a rocking-chair by the fire nursing the latest descendant of Sir Ralph Denmead the Crusader who, instead of being born in a stately castle, had first seen the light in Kingsmead Terrace at a lodging house specially reserved for what the landlady termed “Theat’icals.” Ralph could only thank her for all her help, but he was blessed with the power of expression and the good soul felt fully rewarded for what she had gone through. “Don’t you mention it, sir, it’s nothing but a pleasure,” she said. “Mrs. Brinton she was here till one o’clock, and a very pleasant spoken lady she is and handy with the child. And, says I to her, the finest grown man I ever see in my life, six foot two in his stocking feet, was not a morsel bigger than this baby to start with. A fine set up man he was as you could wish till he lost his leg along of frost bites and under-feeding in the Crimea.” Ralph looked at the funny little bundle swathed in flannel and almost laughed at the thought of his possible development into a military hero of six foot two, losing a leg for his country’s glory! But the mention of military life made him think of Bridget, and he determined to telegraph to her at once. Down in the sitting-room they found Macneillie solacing himself with Shakspere and a pipe, and delighted to hear the more favourable report. “You have been up all night, Governor,” said Ralph regretfully, when the doctor had gone. “Well, yes, I was afraid you might need me,” said Macneillie. “I had hardly dared to hope for this good news. Come, sit down and eat, boy, you are nearly played out. I brewed some coffee for you, but I don’t know whether it is fit to drink now.” Ralph obeyed, eating like a hungry school boy, and his face gradually assumed a less ghastly hue. “What time is rehearsal?” he asked glancing at his watch. “Hullo! I forgot to wind it, and it has run down.” “It’s now eight,” said Macneillie. “Rehearsal is at eleven, but you won’t be needed. I am going to play Hamlet.” “No, Governor,” said Ralph emphatically. “I shall be all right after a little sleep, and it was almost the first thing Evereld thought of. Isn’t she a model actor’s wife?” He knew well that to play Hamlet was almost more than Macneillie could endure, for long ago the Manager had told him that he had acted it every night before Christine Greville’s wedding, and that it had become so bound up with all the mental misery he had gone through at that time that he had never dared to attempt it again.