It was Thursday evening, and on the morrow there would be the opportunity of private interviews with Dr. Easterby.  She longed for the moment, chiefly to free herself from the sense of deception that had all this time seemed to vitiate her religious exercises, deafen her ears, and blow aside her prayers.  There was a touch on her shoulder, and one of the Sisters who had received the ladies said, interrogatively, “Miss Vivian?  The Mother would be obliged if you would come to her room.”

The general hush prevented Lenore from manifesting her extreme agitation, and she moved with as quiet a step as she could command, though trembling from head to foot.  In the room to which she came stood the Superior and Dr. Easterby, and a yellow telegram-paper lay on the table.

“My father?” she asked.

“No,” said the Superior, kindly, “it is your sister, who is ill.  Here is the telegram—­”

“Sister Margaret to the Mother Superior, St. Faith’s, Dearport.  Lady Tyrrell has the fever.  Miss Vivian much needed.

“Wils’bro, Sept. 26th, 5.30.”

“The fever!” She looked up bewildered, and the Superior added—­

“You did not know of a fever at Wil’sbro’?  Some of our nursing Sisters were telegraphed for, and went down yesterday.  I was sorry to send Sister Margaret away just when her mother and you are here; but she was the only available head, and the need seemed great.”

“I have heard nothing since I left home on Friday,” said Eleonora, hoarsely.  “It is my own fault.  They think I am at Revelrig.”

“Your family do not know you are here?” said the Superior, gravely.

“It was very wrong,” she said.  “This is the punishment.  I must go.  Can I?”

“Surely, as soon as there is a train,” said the Superior, beginning to look for a Bradshaw; while Dr. Easterby gave Lenore a chair, and bade her sit down.  She looked up at his kind face, and asked whether he had heard of this fever.

“On Sunday evening, some friends who came out from Backsworth to our evening service spoke of an outbreak of fever at Wil’sbro’, and said that several of the Charnock family were ill.  I have had this card since from young Mr. Bowater:—­

“T.  F. in severe form.  J. C. well, but both his brothers are down in it, and Lady K.’s brother, also Lady T. and the Vicar.  No one to do anything; we have taken charge of Wil’sbro’.  I have no time to do more than thank you for unspeakable kindness.  H. B.”

“You knew?” exclaimed Lenore, as she saw her sister’s initial.

“I knew Lady Tyrrell was ill, but I do not know who the ladies are whom I address.  I did not guess that you were here,” said Dr. Easterby, gently.

No one living near Backsworth could fail to know Sir Harry Vivian’s reputation, so that the master of Rood House knew far better than the Superior of St. Faith’s how much excuse Lenore’s evasion might have; but whatever could seem like tampering with young people was most distressing to the Sisters, and the Mother was more grave than pitiful.