“And—­at Compton?” faintly asked Lenore.

“Bad enough, they say.  Serves ’em right; Mrs. Raymond was as mischievous as Duncombe’s wife, but I’ve not heard for the last two days; there’s been no one to send over, and I’ve had enough to think about of my own.”

“Who have it there?” she managed to say.

“Raymond and his wife, both; and Frank and the young De Lancey, I heard.  I met Julius Charnock the other day very anxious about them.  He’s got his tithe barn stuffed with children from Water Lane, as if he wanted to spread it.  All their meddling!  But what kept you so long, little one?  Where were you hiding?—­or did Lady Susan keep it from you?  I began to think you had eloped with her son.  You are sure you have not?”

“I was wrong, father; I went to a Retreat with Lady Susan.”

“A what?  Some of Lady Susan’s little poperies, eh?  I can’t scold you, child, now I’ve got you; only have your letters forwarded another time,” said Sir Harry, placable as usual when alone with Lenore.

Fears of infection for her did not occur to him.  Mr. M’Vie held the non-contagion theory, and helpless selfishness excluded all thoughts of keeping his daughter at a distance.  He clung to her as he used to do in former days, before Camilla had taken possession of him, and could not bear to have her out of reach.  In the sick-room she was of disappointingly little use.  The nurse was a regular professional, used to despotism, and resenting her having brought home any one with her, and she never permitted Miss Vivian’s presence, except when the patient’s anxiety made it necessary to bring her in; and when admitted, there was nothing to be done but to sit by Camilla, and now and then answer the weary disjointed talk, and, if it grew a little livelier, the warning that Lady Tyrrell was getting excited was sure to follow.

Outside there was enough to do, in the disorganized state of the sick and panic-stricken household, where nobody was effective but the French valet and one very stupid kitchen-maid.  Lena helped the St. Faith’s nurse in her charge of the French maid, but almost all her time in the morning was spent in domestic cares for the sick and for her father; and when he was once up, he was half plaintive, half passionate, if she did not at once respond to his calls.  She read the papers to him, walked up and down the terrace with him while he smoked, and played bezique with him late into the night, to distract his thoughts.  And where were hers, while each day’s bulletin from Compton Hall was worse than the last?  Little Joe Reynolds had been sent home on being taken ill, and she would fain have gone to see him, but detentions sprang up around her, and sometimes it would have been impossible to go so far from the house, so that days had become weeks, and the month of October was old before she was walking down the little garden of old Betty’s house.  The door opened, and Julius Charnock came out, startling her by the sight of his worn and haggard looks, as he made a deprecating movement, and shut the door behind him.  Then she saw that the blinds were in the act of being drawn down.