The Manchester physician came a second time after a week’s interval, and on this occasion he was not so positive in his opinion as to the case.  He did not consider that there was peril as yet, he said; but the patient was weaker, and he was by no means satisfied.  He prescribed a change of medicine, repeated his injunctions about care and quiet; and so departed, after requesting Mr. Hale to telegraph for him in the event of any change for the worse.

I was a good deal depressed by his manner this time, and went back to my dear girl’s room with a heavier heart than I had known since her illness began.

It was my habit to take whatever sleep I could in the course of the afternoon, leaving Susan Dodd on guard, so as to be able to sit up all night.  Susan had begged very hard to share this night-watching, but I insisted upon her taking her usual rest, so as to be bright and fresh in the day.  I felt the night-work was the more important duty, and could trust that to no one but myself.

Unfortunately it happened very often that I was quite unable to sleep when I went to my room in the afternoon to lie down.  Half my time I used to lie there wide awake thinking of my darling girl, and praying for her speedy recovery.  On the afternoon that followed the Manchester doctor’s second visit I went to my room as usual; but I was more than ever disinclined to sleep.  For the first time since the fever began I felt a horrible dread that the end might be fatal; and I lay tossing restlessly from side to side, meditating on every word and look of the physician’s, and trying to convince myself that there was no real ground for my alarm.

I had been lying awake like this for more than an hour, when I heard the door of Milly’s dressing-room—­which was close to my door—­closed softly; and with a nervous quickness to take alarm I sprang up, and went out into the corridor, thinking that Susan was coming to summon me.  I found myself face to face, not with Susan Dodd, but with Mrs. Darrell.

She gave a little start at seeing me, and stood with her hand still upon the handle of the dressing-room door, looking at me with the strangest expression I ever saw in any human countenance.  Alarm, defiance, hatred—­what was it?

‘I thought you were asleep,’ she said.

‘I have not been able to sleep this afternoon.’

’You are a bad person for a nurse, Miss Crofton, if you cannot sleep at will.  I am afraid you are nervous, too, by the way you darted out of the room just now.’

‘I heard that door shut, and thought Susan was coming to call me.’

’I had just been in to see how the invalid was going on—­that is all.’

She passed me, and went back to her own apartments, which were on the other side of the house.  I felt that it was quite useless trying to sleep; so I returned to my room only to change my dressing-gown for my dress, and then went back to Milly.  She had been sleeping very quietly, Susan told me.