At breakfast next day Askew’s account of his early morning drew a smile even from Ann Penhallow.  “Sleep!  Yes, I suppose I slept.  There was a blank of some hours.  I am apt to waken early.  At dawn there was a bright red-eyed sky, then it clouded as if the eyes had shut.  A little later Miss Grey rode away on a chestnut horse.  I walked through your garden and an unseen lady gave me this rose-bud.  I had a joyful swim.  As I came back I saw Captain Penhallow ride away—­and why not with you, Miss Grey?  You may perceive that I am a dangerous man to entertain.  If you do not prefer better society, may I ask to ride with you to-morrow?”

“What better society?” asked Leila.

“Oh, Miss Grey, alone—­by herself.”

The two young people understood the charitable gaiety of his talk, but although one of them at least was feeling a sudden access of relief the quick jesting chat and laughter became distressing to Ann Penhallow.  At last she rose and excused herself, saying, “Another cup?  My niece will give it to you.”

“One moment,” he returned—­his face became grave.  “I shall operate early this morning.  You must go out-of-doors—­the porch—­I suggest the porch.  I shall send down Dr. McGregor to tell you frankly the result of my operation.  I want Captain Penhallow, and with him and the two McGregors we shall care for my patient.  I hope the doctors will let you see the Colonel in a week.  I shall trespass on your hospitality for two days more.”

“I could wish it were a week.  I shall do precisely what you desire.”

John Penhallow caught some signal of amused surprise in Leila’s looks.  He checked his own smile of partnership in mirth at Ann Penhallow’s sudden subjugation, feeling that with Leila the intimacies of mirth were at an end.

Ann took her knitting and went out upon the back porch.  “How many rows can I knit until I hear?  No, Leila—­I want to be alone.  Here is a note from Mr. Rivers.  The Bishop met him at Harrisburg and carried him off to Philadelphia.  I hope there is no scheme to take him away.  Now go, dear.”  She heard the voices of the McGregors as they went upstairs.  She sat alone and waited.

Among the friends who know me only through my summer-born books, there must be many who can recall such hours of suspense as Ann Penhallow endured.  The clock in the hall struck ten.  A little later her keen sense made her aware of the faint odour of ether from the open windows on the second floor.  She let fall her work, went down the garden path, and walked with quick steps among the firstlings of June.  Then came Tom McGregor swiftly, and in his smiling face she read good news.

“It is all right,” he said; “it is over.  There was a fracture of the fragile inner layer of the bone—­a piece was pressing on the brain—­it was easily removed.  The doctor is very much pleased.  Oh, my dear Mrs. Penhallow, there are better days ahead for you and him.  Now, I must go back.”