“Though I apprehend no immediate danger, Miss Fairfax, it is to be regretted that this sad moment finds Mr. Fairfax at variance with his only surviving son,” said Dr. Marks.  “Mr. Laurence Fairfax ought to be here.  It is probable that his father has not made a final disposition of his affairs; indeed, I understand from Mr. John Short that he has not done so.”

“Oh, does that matter now?” said Bessie.

“Mr. Fairfax’s recovery might be promoted if his mind were quite at ease.  If he should wish to transact any business with his lawyer, you may be required to speak of your own wishes.  Do not waste the favorable moment.  The stroke has not been severe, and I have good hopes of restoration, but when the patient is verging on seventy we can never be sure.”

Dr. Marks went away, leaving Mr. Wilson to watch the case.  Mr. John Short then explained to Bessie the need there was that she should be prepared for any event:  a rally of consciousness was what he hoped for, perfect, whether tending to recovery or the precursor of dissolution.  For he knew of no will that Mr. Frederick had made, and he knew that since the discovery of Mr. Laurence’s marriage the squire had destroyed the last will of his own making, and that he had not even drawn out a rough scheme of his further intentions.  The entailed estates were of course inalienable—­those must pass to his son and his son’s son—­but there were houses and lands besides over which he had the power of settlement.  Bessie listened, but found it very hard to give her mind to these considerations, and said so.

“My uncle Laurence is the person to talk to,” she suggested.

“Probably he will arrive before the day is over, but you are to be thought of, you are to be provided for, Miss Fairfax.”

“Oh, I don’t care for myself at all,” said Bessie.

“The more need, then, that some one else should care for you,” replied Mr. John Short.

Inquirers daily besieged Abbotsmead for news of the squire.  Mr. Laurence Fairfax came over, and Mr. John Short stayed on, expecting his opportunity, while slowly the old man recovered up to a certain point.  But his constitution was permanently weakened and his speech indistinct.  Jonquil, Macky, and Mrs. Betts were his nurses, and the first person that he was understood to ask for was Elizabeth.  Bessie was so glad of his recollection that she went to him with a bright face—­the first bright face that had come about his bed yet—­and he was evidently pleased.  She took up one of his hands and stroked and kissed it, and knelt down to bring herself nearer to him, all with that affectionate kindness that his life had missed ever since his sister Dorothy died.

“You are better, grandpapa; you will soon be up and out of doors again,” said she cheerfully.