Dolly was, however, partly mistaken.  Lady Brierley was a help.  First, for the likenesses.  Dolly painted so charming a little picture of her ladyship that it was a perpetual letter of recommendation; Lady Brierley’s friends desired to have Dolly’s pencil do the same service for them; neighbouring families saw and admired her work and came to beg to have her skill exerted on their behalf; and, in short, orders flowed in upon Dolly to the full occupation of all the time she had to give to them.  They paid well, too.  For that, Dolly had referred to Lady Brierley to say what the price ought to be; and Lady Brierley, guessing need on the one hand and knowing abundance on the other, had set the price at a very pretty figure; and money quite piled itself up in Dolly’s secret hoard.  She was very glad of it; for her supplies from her father became more and more precarious.  He seemed to shut his eyes when he came to Brierley, and not recognise the fact that anything was wanting or missing.  And well Dolly knew that such wilful oversight could never happen if Mr. Copley were himself doing true and faithful work; she knew he was going in false and dangerous ways, without being able to follow him and see just what they were.  Her one comfort was, that her mother did not seem to read the signs that were so terribly legible to herself.

And here too Lady Brierley’s new-found friendship was of use.  She wrought a diversion for the girl’s troubled spirits.  She was constantly having Dolly at the House.  Dolly objected to leaving her mother; at the same time Mrs. Copley very much objected to have Dolly stay at home when such chances offered; so, at first to paint, and then to give her sweet company, Dolly went often, and spent hours at a time with Lady Brierley, who on her part grew more and more fond of having the little American girl in her society.  Dolly was a novelty, and a mystery, and a beauty.  Lady Brierley’s son was in Russia; so there was no harm in her being a beauty, but the contrary; it was pleasant to the eyes.  And Dolly was naïve, and fresh, and independent too, with a manner as fearless and much more frank than Lady Brierley’s own, and yet with as simple a reserve of womanly dignity as any lady could have; and how a girl that painted likenesses for money, and made her own bread, and learned cookery of Mrs. Jersey, could talk to Lord Brierley with such sweet, quiet freedom, was a puzzle most puzzling to the great lady.  So it was to others, for at Brierley House Dolly often saw a great deal of company.  It did her good; it refreshed her; it gave her a world of things to tell for the amusement of her mother; and besides all that, she felt that Lady Brierley was really a friend, and would be kind if occasion were; indeed, she was kind now.

Dolly needed it all, for darker days were coming, and the shadow of them was “cast before,” as the manner is.  With every visit of Mr. Copley to the cottage, Dolly grew more uneasy.  He was not looking well, nor happy, nor easy; his manner was constrained, his spirits were forced; and for all that appeared, he might suppose that Dolly and her mother could live on air.  He gave them nothing else to live on.  What did he live on himself, Dolly queried, besides wine? and she made up her mind that, hard as it was, and doubtful as the effect, she must have a talk with him the next time he came down.  “O father, father!” she cried to herself in the bitterness of her heart, “how can you! how can you! how can you!  It never, never ought to be, that a child is ashamed for her father!  The world is turned upside down.”

How intensely bitter it was, the children who have always been proud of their parents can never know.  Dolly wrung her hands sometimes, in a distress that was beyond tears; and then devoted herself with redoubled ardour to her mother, to prevent her from finding out how things were going.  She would have a plain talk with her father the next time he came, very difficult as she felt it would be; things could not go on as they were; or at least, not without ending in a thorough breakdown.  But what we purpose is one thing; what we are able to execute is often quite another thing.

It was a week or two before Mr. Copley made his appearance.  Dolly was looking from the window, and saw the village fly drive up and her father get out of it.  She announced the fact to her mother, and then ran down to the garden gate to meet him.  As their hands encountered at the gate, Dolly almost fell back; took her hand from the latch, and only put it forth again when she saw that her father could not readily get the gate open.  He was looking ill; his gait was tottering, his eye wavering, and when he spoke his utterance was confused.  Dolly felt as if a lump of ice had suddenly come where her heart used to be.

“You are not well, father?” she said as they went up the walk together.

“Well enough,” returned Mr. Copley ­“all right directly.  Cursed wet weather ­got soaked to the bone ­haven’t got warm yet.”

“Wet weather!” said Dolly; “why, it is very sunny and warm.  What are you thinking of, father?”

“Sun don’t always shine in England,” said Mr. Copley.  “Let me get in and have a cup of tea or coffee.  You don’t keep such a thing as brandy in the house, do you?”

“You have had brandy enough already,” said Dolly in a low, grave voice.  “I will make some coffee.  Come in ­why, you are trembling, father!  Are you cold?”

“Haven’t been warm for three days.  Cold? yes.  Coffee, Dolly, let me have some coffee.  It’s the vilest climate a man ever lived in.”

“Why, father,” said Dolly, laying her hand on his sleeve, “your coat is wet!  What have you done to yourself?”

“Wet? no, ­it isn’t.  I put on a dry coat to come down ­wouldn’t be such a fool as to put on a wet one.  Coffee, Dolly!  It’s cold enough for a fire.”

“But how did your coat get wet, father?”

“’Tisn’t wet.  I left a wet coat in London ­had enough of it.  If you go out in England you must get wet.  Give me some coffee, if you haven’t got any brandy.  I tell you, I’ve never been warm since.”

Dolly ran up stairs, where Mrs. Copley was making a little alteration in her dress.

“Mother,” she cried, “will you go down and take care of father?  He is not well; I am afraid he has taken cold; I am going to make him some coffee as fast as I can.  Get him to change his coat; ­it is wet.”

Then Dolly ran down again, every nerve in her trembling, but forcing herself to go steadily and methodically to work.  She made a cup of strong coffee, cooked a nice bit of beefsteak she had in the house, rejoicing that she had it; and while the steak was doing she made a plate of toast, such as she knew both father and mother were fond of.  In half an hour she had it all ready and carried it up on a tray.  Mrs. Copley was sitting with an anxious and perplexed face watching her husband; he had crept to the empty fireplace and was leaning towards it as towards a place whence comfort ought to be looked for.  His wife had persuaded him to exchange the wet coat for an old dressing-gown, which change, however, seemed to have wrought no bettering of affairs.

“What is the matter?” said poor Mrs. Copley with a scared face.  “I can’t make out anything from what he says.”

“He has caught cold, I think,” said Dolly very quietly; though her face was white, and all the time of her ministrations in the kitchen she had worked with that feeling of ice at her heart.  “Father, here is your coffee, and it is good; maybe this will make you feel better.”

She had set her dishes nicely on the table; she had poured out the coffee and cut a piece of the steak; but Mr. Copley would look at no food.  He drank a little coffee, and set the cup down.

“Sloppy stuff!  Haven’t you got any brandy?”

“You have had brandy already this afternoon, father.  Take the coffee now.”

“Brandy? my teeth were chattering, and I took a wretched glass somewhere.  Do give me some more, Dolly! and stop this shaking.”

“Where did you get cold, Mr. Copley?” asked his wife.  “You have caught a terrible cold.”

“Nothing of the kind.  I am all right.  Just been in the rain; rain’ll wet any man; my coat’s got it.”

“But when, Frank?” urged his wife.  “There has been no rain to-day; it is clear, hot summer weather.  When were you in the rain?”

“I don’t know.  Rain’s rain.  It don’t signify when.  Have you got nothing better than this?  I shall not stop shaking till morning.”

And he did not.  They got him to bed, and sat and watched by him, the mother and daughter; watching the feverish trembling, and the feverish flush that gradually rose in his cheeks.  They could get no more information as to the cause of the mischief.  The truth was, that two or three nights previous, Mr. Copley had sat long at play and drunk freely; lost freely too; so that when at last he went home, his condition of mind and body was so encumbered and confused that he took no account of the fact that it was raining heavily.  He was heated, and the outer air was refreshing; Mr. Copley walked home to his lodgings; was of course drenched through; and on getting home had no longer clearness of perception enough in exercise to know that he must take off his wet clothes.  How he passed the night he never knew; but the morning found him very miserable, and he had been miserable ever since.  Pains and aches, flushes of heat, creepings of inexplicable cold, would not be chased away by any potations his landlady recommended or by the stronger draughts to which Mr. Copley’s habits bade him recur; and the third day, with something of the same sort of dumb instinct which makes a wounded or sick animal draw back to cover, he threw himself into the post coach and went down to Brierley.  Naturally, he took advantage of stopping places by the way to get something to warm him; and so reached home at last in an altogether muddled and disordered state of mind and body.

Neither Mrs. Copley nor Dolly would go to bed that night.  Not that there was much to do, but there was much to fear; and they clung in their fear to each other’s company.  Mrs. Copley dozed in an easy-chair part of the time; and Dolly sat at the open window with her head on the sill and lost herself there in slumber that was hardly refreshing.  The night saw no change; and the morning was welcome, as the morning is in times of sickness, because it brought stir and the necessity of work to be done.

It was still early when Dolly, after refreshing herself with water and changing her dress, went downstairs.  She opened the hall door, and stood still a moment.  The summer morning met her outside, fresh with dew, heavy with the scent of roses, musical with the song of birds; dim, sweet, full of life, breathing loveliness, folding its loveliness in mystery.  As yet, things could be seen but confusedly; the dark bank of Brierley Park with its giant trees rose up against the sky, there was no gleam on the little river, the outlines of nearer trees and bushes were merged and indistinct; but what a hum and stir and warble and chitter of happy creatures! how many creatures to be happy! and what a warm breath of incense told of the blessings of the summer day in store for them!  For them, and not for Dolly?  It smote her hard, the question and the answer.  It was for her too; it ought to be for her; the Lord’s will was that all His creatures should be happy; and some of his creatures would not!  Some refused the rich invitation, and would neither take themselves nor let others take the bountiful, tender, blessed gifts of God.  It came to Dolly with an unspeakable sore pain.  Yes, the Lord’s will was peace and joy and plenty for them all; fulness of gracious supply; the singing of delighted hearts, loving and praising Him.  And men made their own choice to have something else, and brought bitterness into what was meant to be only sweet.  Tears came slowly into her eyes, mournful tears, and rolled down her cheeks hopelessly.  Whatever was to become now of her little family?  Her father, she feared, was entering upon a serious illness, which might last no one knew how long.  Who would nurse him? and if Dolly did, who would do the work of the household? and if her father was laid by for any considerable time, whence were needful supplies to come from?  Dolly’s little stock would not last for ever.  And how would her mother stand the strain and the care and the fatigue?  It seemed to Dolly as she stood there at the door, that her sky was closing in and the ground giving way beneath her feet.  Usually she kept up her courage bravely; just now it failed.

“Dolly,” her mother’s voice came smothered from over the balusters of the upper hall.

“Yes, mother?”

“Send Nelly for the doctor as soon as you can.”

“Yes, mother.  As soon as it is light enough.”

The doctor! that was another thought.  Then there would be the doctor’s bill.  But at this point Dolly caught herself up. “Take no thought for the morrow” ­what did that mean? “Be careful for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God.”  And, “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” The words loosed the bands which seemed to have bound Dolly’s heart in iron; she broke down, fell down on her knees in the porch, resting her head on the seat, and burst into a thunder-shower of weeping, which greatly cleared the air and relieved the oppression under which she had been labouring.  This was nearly as uncommon a thing for Dolly as her former hopeless mood; she rose up feeling shaken, and yet strengthened.  Ready for duty.

She went into the little sitting-room, set open the casement, and put the furniture in order, dusting and arranging.  Leaving that all right, Dolly went down to the kitchen and made the fire.  She was thinking what she should do for breakfast, when her little handmaid made her appearance.  Dolly gave her some bread and butter and cold coffee, and sent her off to the village with a note to the doctor which she had meanwhile prepared.  Left to herself then, she put on her kettle, and looked at the untouched pieces of beefsteak she had cooked last night.  She knew what to do with them, thanks to Mrs. Jersey.  The next thing was to go out into the dewy garden and get a handful of different herbs and vegetables growing there; and what she did with them I will not say; but in a little while Dolly had a most savoury mess prepared.  Then she crept upstairs to her mother.  Here everything was just as it had been all night.  Dolly whispered to her mother to come down and have some breakfast.  Mrs. Copley shook her head.

“You must, mother, dear.  I have got something nice ­and father is sleeping; he don’t want you.  Come!  I have got it in the kitchen, for Nelly is away, and it’s less trouble, and keeps the coffee hot.  Come! father won’t want anything for a little while, and you and I do, and must have it, or we cannot stand what is on our hands.  Come, mother.  Wash your face, and it will refresh you, and come right down.”

The little kitchen was very neat; the window was open and the summer morning looking in; nobody was there but themselves; and so there might be many a worse place to take breakfast in.  And the meal prepared was dainty, though simple.  Mrs. Copley could not eat much, nor Dolly; and yet the form of coming to breakfast and the nicety of the preparation were a comfort; they always are; they seem to say that all things are not confusion, and give a kind of guaranty for the continuance of old ways.  Still, Mrs. Copley did not eat much, and soon went back to her watch; and Dolly cleared the table and considered what she could have for dinner.  For dinner must be as usual; on that she was determined.  But the doctor’s coming was the next thing on the programme.

The doctor came and made his visit, and Dolly met him in the hall as he was going away.  He was a comfortable-looking man, with the long English whiskers; ruddy and fleshy; one who, Dolly was sure, had no objection, for his own part, to a good glass of wine, or even a good measure of beer, if the wine were not forthcoming.

“Your father, is it?” said the doctor.  “Well, take care of him ­take care of him.”

“How shall we take care of him, sir?”

“Well, I’ve left medicines upstairs.  He won’t want much to eat; nor much of anything, for a day or two.”

“What is it?  Cold?”

“No, my young lady.  Fever.”

“He got himself wet in the rain, a few days ago.  He was shivering last night.”

“Very likely.  That’s fever.  Must take its course.  He’s not shivering now.”

“Will he be long ill, sir, probably?”

“Impossible to say.  These things are not to be counted upon.  May get up in a day or two, but far more likely not in a week or two.  Good morning!”

A week or two!  Dolly stood and looked after the departing chaise which carried the functionary who gave judgment so easily on matters of life and death.  The question came back.  What would become of her mother and her, if watching and nursing had to be kept up for weeks? ­with all the rest there was to do.  Dolly felt very blue for a little while; then she shook it off again and took hold of her work.  Nelly had returned by this time, with a knuckle of veal from the butcher’s.  Dolly put it on, to make the nicest possible delicate stew for her mother; and even for her father she thought the broth might, do.  She gathered herbs and vegetables in the garden again, and a messenger came from Mrs. Jersey with a basket of strawberries; Dolly wrote a note to go back with the basket, and altogether had a busy morning of it.  For bread had also to be made; and her small helpmate was good for only the simplest details of scrubbing and sweeping and washing dishes.  It was with the greatest difficulty after all that Dolly coaxed her mother to come down to dinner; Nelly being left to keep watch the while and call them if anything was wanted.

“I can’t eat, Dolly!” Mrs. Copley said, when she was seated at Dolly’s board.

“Mother, it is necessary.  See ­this is what you like, and it is very good, I know.  And these potatoes are excellent.”

“But, Dolly, he may be sick for weeks, for aught we can tell; it is a low fever.  Oh, this is the worst of all we have had yet!” cried Mrs. Copley, wringing her hands.

It did look so, and for a moment Dolly could not speak.  Her heart seemed to stand still.

“Mother, we don’t know,” she said.  “We do not know anything.  It may be no such matter; it may not last so; the doctor cannot tell; and anyhow, mother, God does know and He will take care.  We can trust Him, can’t we? and meanwhile what you and I have to do is to keep up our strength and our faith and our spirits.  Eat your dinner like a good woman.  I am going to make a cup of tea for you.  Perhaps father would take some.”

“And you,” said Mrs. Copley, eyeing her.  Dolly had a white kitchen apron on, it is true, but she was otherwise in perfect order and looked very lovely.  “What about me?” she said.

“Doing kitchen work!  You, who are fit for ­something so different!” Mrs. Copley had to get rid of some tears here.

“Doing kitchen work?  Yes, certainly, if that is the thing given me to do.  Why not?  Isn’t my veal good?  I’ll do anything, mother, that comes to hand, provided I can do it.  Mother, we don’t trust half enough.  Remember who it is gives me the cooking to do.  Shall I not do what He gives me?  And I can tell you one little secret ­I like to do cooking.  Isn’t it good?”

Mrs. Copley made a very respectable dinner after all.

This was the manner of the beginning of Mr. Copley’s illness.  Faith and courage were well tried as the days went on; for though never violently ill, he never mended.  Day and night the same tedious low fever held him, wearing down not his strength only but that of the two whose unaided hands had to manage all that was done.  Dolly did not know where to look for a nurse, and Mrs. Copley was utterly unwilling to have one called in.  She herself roused to the emergency and ceased to complain about her own troubles; she sat up night after night, with only partial help from Dolly, who had her hands full with the care of the house and the day duty and the sick cookery.  And as day after day went by, and night after night was watched through, and days and nights began to run into weeks, the strength and nervous energy of them both began at times to fail.  Neither showed it to the other, except as pale faces and weary eyes told their story.  Mrs. Copley cried in secret, at night, with her head on the window-sill; and Dolly went with slow foot to gather her herbs and vegetables, and sat down sometimes in the porch, in the early dawn or the evening gloom, and allowed herself to own that things were looking very dark indeed.  The question was, how long would it be possible to go on as they were doing? how long would strength hold out? ­and money?  The doctor’s fees took great pinches out of Dolly’s fund; and for the present there was no adding to it.  Lady Brierley was away; she had gone to the seaside.  Mrs. Jersey was very kind; fruit and eggs and vegetables came almost daily from the House to Dolly’s help, and the kind housekeeper herself had offered to sit up with the sick man; but this offer was refused.  Mr. Copley did not like to see any stranger about him.  And Dolly and her mother were becoming now very tired.  As the weeks went on, they ceased to look in each other’s faces any more with questioning eyes; they knew too well how anxiety and effort had told upon both of them, and each was too conscious of what the other was thinking and fearing.  They did not meet each other’s eyes with those mute demands in them any more; but they stole stealthy glances sometimes each to see how the other face looked; what tokens of wear and tear it was showing; taking in at a rapid view the lines of weariness, the marks of anxiety, the faded colour, the languor of spirit which had gradually taken the place of the earlier energy.  In word and action they showed none of all this.  All the more, no doubt, when each was alone and the guard might be relaxed, a very grave and sorrowful expression took possession of their faces.  Nothing else might be relaxed.  Day and night the labour and the watch were unintermitting.

And so the summer wore on to an end.  Dolly was patient, but growing very sad; perhaps taking a wider view of things than her mother, who for the present was swallowed up in the one care about her husband’s condition.  Dolly, managing the finances and managing the household, had both parents to think of; and was sometimes almost in despair.

She was sitting so one afternoon in the kitchen, in a little lull of work before it was time to get supper, looking out into the summer glow.  It was warm in the small kitchen, but Dolly had not energy to go somewhere else for coolness.  She sat gazing out, and almost querying whether all things were coming to an end at once; life and the means to live together, and the strength to get means.  And yet she remembered that it is written ­“Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed.”  But then, ­it came cold into her heart, ­it could not be said that her father and mother had ever fulfilled those conditions; could the promise be good for her faith alone?  And truly, where was Dolly’s faith just now?  Withal, as she sat gazing out of the window, she saw that full wealth of summer, which was a pledge and proof of the riches of the hand from which it came.

“There’s a gentleman, mum,” Dolly’s little helpmate announced in her ear.  Dolly started.

“A gentleman? what gentleman?  It isn’t the doctor?  He has been here.”

“It’s no him.  I knows Dr. Hopley.  It’s no him.”

“I cannot see company.  Is it company, Nelly?”

“The gentleman didn’t say, mum.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s a standin’ there at the door.”

Dolly slowly rose up and doubtfully took off her great kitchen apron; doubtfully went upstairs.  Perhaps she had better see who it was.  Mrs. Jersey might have sent a messenger, ­or Lady Brierley!  She went on to the hall door, which was open, and where indeed she saw a tall figure against the summer glow which filled all out of doors.  A tall figure, a tall, upright figure; at first Dolly could see only the silhouette of him against the warm outer light.  She came doubtfully close up to the open door.  Then she could see a little more besides the tallness; a peculiar uprightness of bearing, a manly, frank face, a head of close curling dark hair, and an expression of pleasant expectation; there was a half smile on the face, and a deferential look of waiting.  He stood bareheaded before her, and had not the air of a stranger; but Dolly was quite bewildered.  Somebody altogether strange, and yet somehow familiar.  She said nothing; her eyes questioned why, being a stranger, he should stand there with such a look upon his face.

“I am afraid I am not remembered,” said the gentleman, with the smile coming out a little more.  His look, too, was steady and straightforward and observant, ­where had Dolly seen that mixture of quietness and resoluteness?  Her eyes fell to the little cap in his hand, an officer’s cap, and then light came into them.

“Oh!” she cried, ­“Mr. Shubrick!”

“It is a long time since that Christmas Day at Rome,” he said; a more wistful gravity coming into his face as he better scanned the face opposite to him, which the evening light revealed very fully.

“Oh, I know now,” said Dolly.  “I do not need to be reminded; but I could not expect to see you here.  I thought you were in the Mediterranean.  Will you come in, Mr. Shubrick?  I am very glad to see you; but my thoughts were so far away” ­

“You thought I was in the Mediterranean?” he said as he followed Dolly in.  “May I ask, why?”

“Your ship was there.”

“Was there; but ships are not stationary things.”

“No, of course not,” said Dolly, throwing open the blinds and letting the summer light and fragrance stream in.  “Then, when did you see Christina?”

“Not for months.  The Red Chief has been ordered to the Baltic and is there now; and I got a furlough to come to England.  But ­how do you do, Miss Copley?”

“I am well, thank you.”

“Forgive me for asking, if that information can be depended on?”

“Yes, indeed I am well.  I suppose I look tired.  We have had sickness here for a good while ­my father.  Mother and I are tired, no doubt.”

“You look very tired.  I am afraid I ought not to be here.  Can you make me of use?  What is the matter?  Please remember that I am not a stranger.”

“I am very glad to remember it,” said Dolly.  “No, I do not feel as if you were a stranger, Mr. Shubrick, after that day we spent together.  You asked what was the matter ­oh, I don’t know! a sort of slow, nervous fever, not infectious at all, nor very alarming; only it must be watched, and he always wants some one with him, and of course after a while one gets tired.  That cannot be helped.  We have managed very well.”

“Not Mrs. Copley and you alone?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“It is five weeks now.”

“And no improvement yet?”

“I do not know.  Mother thinks a little,” said Dolly, faltering.  This speaking to eyes and ears of sympathy, after so long an interval, rather upset her; her lips trembled, tears came, she was upon the point of breaking down; she struggled for self-command, but her lips trembled more and more.

“I have come in good time,” said her visitor.

“It is pleasant to see somebody, to be able to speak to somebody, that is so good as to care,” said Dolly, brushing her hand over her eyes swiftly.

“You are worn out,” said the other gently.  “I am not going to be simply somebody to speak to.  Miss Copley, I am a countryman, and a sort of a friend, you know.  You will let me take the watch to-night.”

“You!” said Dolly, starting.  “Oh no!”

“I beg your pardon.  You ought to say ‘Oh yes.’  I have had experience.  I think you may trust me.”

“Oh, I cannot.  We have no right to let you do so.”

“You have a right to make any use of me you can; for I place myself at your disposal.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Shubrick!”

“Don’t say anything more.  That is settled,” said he, taking up his cap, as if in preparation for departure.  Dolly was a little bewildered by the quiet, decided manner, just like what she remembered of Mr. Shubrick; unobtrusive and undemonstrative, but if he moved, moving straight to his goal.  She rose as he rose.

“But,” she stammered, “I don’t think you can.  Father likes nobody but mother and me about him.”

“He will like me to-morrow,” Mr. Shubrick answered with a smile.  “Don’t fear; I will manage that.”

“You are very kind!” said Dolly.  “You are very kind!” ­Already her heart was leaping towards this offered help, and Mr. Shubrick looked so resolute and strong and ready; she could hardly oppose him.  “But you are too kind!” she said suddenly.

“No,” said he gravely; “that is impossible.  Remember, in the family we belong to, the rule is one which we can never reach.  ’That ye love one another, even as I have loved you.’”

What it was, I do not know, in these words which overcame Dolly.  In the words and the manner together.  She was very tired and overstrung, and they found some unguarded spot and reached the strained nerves.  Dolly put both hands to her face and burst into tears, and for a moment was terribly afraid that she was going to be hysterical.  But that was not Dolly’s way at all, and she made resolute fight against her nerves.  Meanwhile, she felt herself taken hold of and placed in a chair by the window; and the sense that somebody was watching her and waiting, helped the return of self-control.  With a sort of childish sob, Dolly presently took down her hands and looked up through the glistening tears at the young man standing over her.

“There!” she said, forcing a smile on the lips that quivered, ­“I am all right now.  I do not know how I could be so foolish.”

“I know,” said Mr. Shubrick.  “Then I will just return to the village for half and hour, and be back here as soon as possible.”

“But” ­said Dolly doubtfully.  “Why don’t you send for what you want?”

“Difficult,” said the other.  “I am going to get some supper.”

“Oh!” said Dolly.  “If that is what you want ­sit down, Mr. Shubrick.  Or send off your fly first, and then sit down.  If you are going to stay here to-night, I’ll give you your supper.  Send away the fly, Mr. Shubrick, please!”

“I do not think I can.  And you cannot possibly do such a thing as you propose.  I shall be back here in a very little time.”

Dolly put her hand upon Mr. Shubrick’s cap and softly took it from him.

“No,” she said.  “It’s a bargain.  If I let you do one thing, you must let me do the other.  It would trouble me to have you go.  It is too pleasant to see a friend here, to lose sight of him in this fashion.  There will be supper, of some sort, and you shall have the best we can.  Will you send away your fly, please, and sit down and wait for it?”

If Dolly could not withstand him, so on this point there was no resisting her.  Mr. Shubrick yielded to her evident urgent wish; and Dolly went back to her preparations.  The question suddenly struck her, where should she have supper?  Down here in the kitchen?  But to have it in order, upstairs, would involve a great deal more outlay of strength and trouble.  The little maid could not set the table up there, and Dolly could not, with the stranger looking on.  That would never do.  She debated, and finally decided to put her pride in her pocket and bring her visitor down to the kitchen.  It was not a bad place, and if he was going to be a third nurse in the house, it would be out of keeping to make any ceremony with him.  Dolly’s supper itself was faultless.  She had some cold game, sent by Lady Brierley or by her order; she had fresh raspberries sent by Mrs. Jersey, and a salad of cresses.  But Mrs. Copley would not be persuaded to make her appearance.  She did not want to see strangers; she did not like to leave Mr. Copley; in short, she excused herself obstinately, to Dolly’s distress.  However, she made no objection to having Mr. Shubrick take her place for the night; and she promised Dolly that if she got a good night’s sleep and was rested, she would appear at breakfast.