But these London incidents and memories, near as they were in time, looked many of them strangely remote to Marcella in this morning silence.  When she drew back from the window, after darkening the now sun-flooded room in a very thorough business-like way, in order that she might have four or five hours’ sleep, there was something symbolic in the act.  She gave back her mind, her self, to the cares, the anxieties, the remorses of the past three weeks.  During the night she had been sitting up with her father that her mother might rest.  Now, as she lay down, she thought with the sore tension which had lately become habitual to her, of her father’s state, her mother’s strange personality, her own short-comings.

* * * * *

By the middle of the morning she was downstairs again, vigorous and fresh as ever.  Mrs. Boyce’s maid was for the moment in charge of the patient, who was doing well.  Mrs. Boyce was writing some household notes in the drawing-room.  Marcella went in search of her.

The bare room, just as it ever was—­with its faded antique charm—­looked bright and tempting in the sun.  But the cheerfulness of it did but sharpen the impression of that thin form writing in the window.  Mrs. Boyce looked years older.  The figure had shrunk and flattened into that of an old woman; the hair, which two years before had been still young and abundant, was now easily concealed under the close white cap she had adopted very soon after her daughter had left Mellor.  The dress was still exquisitely neat; but plainer and coarser.  Only the beautiful hands and the delicate stateliness of carriage remained—­sole relics of a loveliness which had cost its owner few pangs to part with.

Marcella hovered near her—­a little behind her—­looking at her from time to time with a yearning compunction—­which Mrs. Boyce seemed to be aware of, and to avoid.

“Mamma, can’t I do those letters for you?  I am quite fresh.”

“No, thank you.  They are just done.”

When they were all finished and stamped, Mrs. Boyce made some careful entries in a very methodical account-book, and then got up, locking the drawers of her little writing-table behind her.

“We can keep the London nurse another week I think,” she said.

“There is no need,” said Marcella, quickly.  “Emma and I could divide the nights now and spare you altogether.  You see I can sleep at any time.”

“Your father seems to prefer Nurse Wenlock,” said Mrs. Boyce.

Marcella took the little blow in silence.  No doubt it was her due.  During the past two years she had spent two separate months at Mellor; she had gone away in opposition to her father’s wish; and had found herself on her return more of a stranger to her parents than ever.  Mr. Boyce’s illness, involving a steady extension of paralytic weakness, with occasional acute fits of pain and danger, had made steady though very gradual progress all the time.  But it was not till some days after her return home that Marcella had realised a tenth part of what her mother had undergone since the disastrous spring of the murder.