“I don’t think I could have invented it,” she said.

“Ah, well,” he answered, “I see you cannot be sure; but let me hear it again, since it possibly might have been said.  ‘Emily sent her love,’ you began——­”

“And she is sitting with Nancy, but she wanted you to know as soon as you came in that the doctors have paid another visit together, and they both agreed that Nancy might now be considered quite out of danger.”

“Oh, I thank God!” he exclaimed.

Emily had sent her love to him to tell him this.  He felt that she might have done, it was not impossible, it reminded him of her kiss.  He had been weighed down so heavily, with a burden that he was never unconscious of for a moment, a load of agonized pity for his little darling’s pain, and of endless self-reproach; that the first thing he was aware of when it was suddenly lifted off and flung away was, that his thoughts were all abroad.  It was much too soon yet to be glad.  He was like a ship floated off the rock it had struck on, a rock like to have been its ruin, but yet which had kept it steady.  It was drifting now, and not answering to the helm.

He could not speak or stir, he hardly seemed to breathe.

A slight sound, the rustling of Dorothea’s gown as she quietly withdrew, recalled him a little to himself, he locked himself in and went back to his place.

He was not in the least able to think, yet tears were raining down on his hands before he knew that they were his tears, and that, as they fell, his heart long daunted and crushed with pain, beat more freely, and tasted once more the rapture of peace and thankfulness.  Presently he was on his knees.  Saved this once, the almost despairing soul which had faintly spoken to God, “I do not rebel,” was passionate now in the fervour of thankful devotion.  The rapture of this respite, this return to common blessings, was almost too ecstatic to be borne.

It was nearly dusk before he could show himself to his children; when he stole upstairs to look at his little Nancy she was again asleep.  “Mrs. Walker had gone back to her own house for the night,” the nurse said, “but she had promised to come back after breakfast.”

That night Emily slept exquisitely.  The luxury of a long peaceful interval, free from anxiety and responsibility, was delightful to her.  She came down very late, and after her breakfast sauntered into the drawing-room, looking fresh as a white blush rose, lovely and content; next to the joy of possession stands, to such as she was, the good of doing good, and being necessary to the objects of their love.

A little tired still, she was sitting idly on a sofa, more wistfully sweet and gravely glad than usual, when suddenly John Mortimer appeared, walking quickly through her garden.

“He was sure to come and thank me,” she said simply, and half aloud.  “I knew he would sooner or later,” and she said and thought no more.