Another week went by, and there was no change for the better, nor any very perceptible change for the worse.  The patient was a little weaker, and suffered from a depression of mind, against which all my efforts were vain.

Angus Egerton came twice daily during this week, but he rarely saw Mrs. Darrell.  I think he studiously avoided meeting her after that painful scene in the drawing-room.  It was for me he inquired, and he used to come up-stairs to the corridor outside Milly’s room, and stand there talking to me in a low voice, and feeling a kind of satisfaction, I believe, in being so near his darling.

Once I ventured to tell her that he was there, and to let him speak a few words for her to hear.  But the sound of the voice she loved so well had such an agitating effect upon her, that I sorely repented my imprudence, and took good care not to repeat it.

So the days went by, in that slow dreary way in which time passes when those we love are ill; and it seemed, in the dead calm of the sick-room, as if all the business of life had come to a stand-still.

I did not see much of Mrs. Darrell during this period.  She came to Milly’s door two or three times a day to ask about her progress, with all appearance of affection and anxiety; but throughout the rest of the day she remained secluded in her own rooms.  I noticed that she had a wan haggard look at this time, like that of a person who had existed for a long while without sleep; but this in no manner surprised me, after that scene in the drawing-room.

As the time went by, I felt that my strength was beginning to fail, and I sadly feared that we might have at last to employ the professional aid which the Manchester physician had suggested.  I had slept very little from the beginning of Milly’s illness, being too anxious to sleep when I had the opportunity of doing so; and I now began to suffer from the effects of this prolonged sleeplessness.  But I struggled resolutely against fatigue, determined to see my dear girl through the fever if possible; and I succeeded wonderfully, by the aid of unlimited cups of strong tea, and always ably seconded by Susan Dodd, Milly’s devoted maid.

Between us we two performed all the duties of the sick-room.  The medicines, wine, soups, jellies, and all things required for the invalid were kept in the dressing-room, which communicated with the bedroom by one door, and had another door opening on to the corridor.

The sick-room, which was very large and airy, was by this means kept free from all litter; and Susan and I took pleasure in making it look bright and fresh.  I used to fetch a bouquet from the garden every morning for the little table by the bed.  At the very commencement of Milly’s illness I had missed Peter, Mrs. Thatcher’s grandson.  I asked one of the men what had become of him, and was told that he had taken the fever and was lying ill at his grandmother’s cottage.  I mentioned this to Mrs. Darrell, and asked her permission to send him some wine and other little comforts, to which she assented.