“He says you can come,” was the word Mrs. Brown brought back, and with a gleam of triumph in her eye and a toss of the head which said, “I told you so,” Lucy went softly into the darkened room and shut the door behind her. Arthur had half expected this and had nerved himself to meet it, but the cold sweat stood on his face and his heart throbbed painfully as Lucy bent over him and said, “Poor, dear Arthur, I am so sorry for you, and if I could I’d bear the pain so willingly.” He knew she would; she was just as loving and unselfish as that, and he wound his arms around her and drew her closer to him, while he whispered, “My poor little Lucy, my poor little Lucy. I don’t deserve this from you.” She did not know what he meant, and she only answered him with kisses, while her hands moved caressingly across his forehead, just as they had moved years ago in Rome when she soothed the pain away. There certainly was a mesmeric influence emanating from those hands, and Arthur felt its power, growing very quiet and at last falling away to sleep while the passes went on, and Lucy held her breath lest she should waken him. She was a famous nurse, the physician said, when he came, and he constituted her his coadjutor and gave his patient’s medicine into her care. It was hardly proper for her niece to stay at the rectory, Mrs. Hetherton thought, but Lucy was one who could trample down proprieties, and it was finally arranged that, in order to avoid all comment, Fanny should stay with her.