She passed now from the subject of the nurse with a half-timid remark about “expense.”

“Oh! the expense doesn’t matter!” said Mrs. Boyce, as she stood absently before the lately kindled fire, warming her chilled fingers at the blaze.

“Papa is more at ease in those ways?” Marcella ventured.  And kneeling down beside her mother she gently chafed one of the cold hands.

“There seems to be enough for what is wanted,” said Mrs. Boyce, bearing the charing with patience.  “Your father, I believe, has made great progress this year in freeing the estate.  Thank you, my dear.  I am not cold now.”

And she gently withdrew her hand.

Marcella, indeed, had already noticed that there were now no weeds on the garden-paths, that instead of one gardener there were three, that the old library had been decently patched and restored, that there was another servant, that William, grown into a very—­tolerable footman, wore a reputable coat, and that a plain but adequate carriage and horse had met her at the station.  Her pity even understood that part of her father’s bitter resentment of his ever-advancing disablement came from his feeling that here at last—­just as death was in sight—­he, that squalid failure, Dick Boyce, was making a success of something.

Presently, as she knelt before the fire, a question escaped her, which, when it was spoken, she half regretted.

“Has papa been able to do anything for the cottages yet?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Boyce, calmly.  After a minute’s pause she added, “That will be for your reign, my dear.”

Marcella looked up with a sharp thrill of pain.

“Papa is better, mamma, and—­and I don’t know what you mean.  I shall never reign here without you.”

Mrs. Boyce began to fidget with the rings on her thin left hand.

“When Mellor ceases to be your father’s it will be yours,” she said, not without a certain sharp decision; “that was settled long ago.  I must be free—­and if you are to do anything with this place, you must give your youth and strength to it.  And your father is not better—­except for the moment.  Dr. Clarke exactly foretold the course of his illness to me two years ago, on my urgent request.  He may live four months—­six, if we can get him to the South.  More is impossible.”

There was something ghastly in her dry composure.  Marcella caught her hand again and leant her trembling young cheek against it.

“I could not live here without you, mamma!”

Mrs. Boyce could not for once repress the inner fever which in general her will controlled so well.

“I hardly think it would matter to you so much, my dear.”

Marcella shrank.

“I don’t wonder you say that!” she said in a low voice.  “Do you think it was all a mistake, mamma, my going away eighteen months ago—­a wrong act?”

Mrs. Boyce grew restless.