“He really is a very good young man.  But oh, Rachel, my dear, how could you bring her here?”

“I did not know, mother.  Any way it is better than her being in Mrs. Kelland’s hive of children.”

“You are not going back to her, Rachel, I entreat!”

“Mother, I must.  You heard what Captain Keith said.  Let that comfort you.  It would be brutal cruelty and cowardice to stay away from her to night.  Good night, Grace, make mother see that it must be so.”

She went, for poor Mrs. Curtis could not withstand her; and only turned with tearful eyes to her elder daughter to say, “You do not go into the room again, Grace, I insist.”

Grace could not bear to leave Rachel to the misery of such a vigil, and greatly reproached herself for the hurry that had prevented her from paying any heed to the condition of the child in her anxiety to make her sister presentable; but Mrs. Curtis was in a state of agitation that demanded all the care and tenderness of this “mother’s child,” and the sharing her room and bed made it impossible to elude the watchfulness that nervously guarded the remaining daughter.

It was eleven o’clock when Alexander Keith drove from the door.  It was a moonlight night, and he was sure to spare no speed, but he could hardly be at Avoncester within an hour and a half, and the doctor would take at least two in coming out.  Mrs. Kelland was the companion of Rachel’s watch.  The woman was a good deal subdued.  The strangeness of the great house tamed her, and she was shocked and frightened by the little girl’s state as well as by the young lady’s grave, awe-struck, and silent manner.

They tried all that Captain Keith had suggested, but the child was too weak and spent to inhale the steam of vinegar, and the attempts to make her swallow produced fruitless anguish.  They could not discover how long it was since she had taken any nourishment, and they already knew what a miserable pittance hers had been at the best.  Mrs. Kelland gave her up at once, and protested that she was following her mother, and that there was death in her face.  Rachel made an imperious gesture of silence, and was obeyed so far as voice went, but long-drawn sighs and shakes of the head continued to impress on her the aunt’s hopelessness, throughout the endeavours to change the position, the moistening of the lips, the attempts at relief in answer to the choked effort to cough, the weary, faint moan, the increasing faintness and exhaustion.

One o’clock struck, and Mrs. Kelland said, in a low, ominous voice, “It is the turn of the night, Miss Rachel.  You bad best leave her to me.”

“I will never leave her,” said Rachel impatiently.

“You are a young lady, Miss Rachel, you ain’t used to the like of this.”

“Hark!” Rachel held up her finger.

Wheels were crashing up the hill.  The horrible responsibility was over, the immediate terror gone, help seemed to be coming at the utmost speed, and tears of relief rushed into Rachel’s eyes, tears that Lovedy must have perceived, for she spoke the first articulate words she had uttered since the night-watch had begun, “Please, ma’am, don’t fret, I’m going to poor mother.”