Grace softly opened Mrs. Maynard’s door, and the sick woman opened her eyes.  “I was n’t asleep,” she said hoarsely, “but I had to pretend to be, or that woman would have killed me.”

Grace went to her and felt her hands and her flushed forehead.

“I am worse this evening,” said Mrs. Maynard.

“Oh, no,” sighed the girl, dropping into a chair at the bedside, with her eyes fixed in a sort of fascination on the lurid face of the sick woman.

“After getting me here,” continued Mrs. Maynard, in the same low, hoarse murmur, “you might at least stay with me a little.  What kept you so long?”

“The wind fell.  We were becalmed.”

“We were not becalmed the day I went out with Mr. Libby.  But perhaps nobody forced you to go.”

Having launched this dart, she closed her eyes again with something more like content than she had yet shown:  it had an aim of which she could always be sure.

“We have heard from Mr. Maynard,” said Grace humbly.  “There was a despatch waiting for Mr. Libby at Leyden.  He is on his way.”

Mrs. Maynard betrayed no immediate effect of this other than to say, “He had better hurry,” and did not open her eyes.

Grace went about the room with a leaden weight in every fibre, putting the place in order, and Mrs. Maynard did not speak again till she had finished.  Then she said, “I want you to tell me just how bad Dr. Mulbridge thinks I am.”

“He has never expressed any anxiety,” Grace began, with her inaptness at evasion.

“Of course he has n’t,” murmured the sick woman.  “He isn’t a fool!  What does he say?”

This passed the sufferance even of remorse.  “He says you mustn’t talk,” the girl flashed out.  “And if you insist upon doing so, I will leave you, and send some one else to take care of you.”

“Very well, then.  I know what that means.  When a doctor tells you not to talk, it’s because he knows he can’t do you any good.  As soon as George Maynard gets here I will have some one that can cure me, or I will know the reason why.”  The conception of her husband as a champion seemed to commend him to her in novel degree.  She shed some tears, and after a little reflection she asked, “How soon will he be here?”

“I don’t know,” said Grace.  “He seems to have started yesterday morning.”

“He can be here by day after to-morrow,” Mrs. Maynard computed.  “There will be some one to look after poor little Bella then,” she added, as if, during her sickness, Bella must have been wholly neglected.  “Don’t let the child be all dirt when her father comes.”

“Mother will look after Bella,” Grace replied, too meek again to resent the implication.  After a pause, “Oh, Louise,” she added beseechingly, “I’ve suffered so much from my own wrong-headedness and obstinacy that I couldn’t bear to see you taking the same risk, and I’m so glad that you are going to meet your husband in the right spirit.”