Mrs. Hale herself was not aware when she awoke, how ill she had been the night before.  She was rather surprised at Dr. Donaldson’s early visit, and perplexed by the anxious faces of husband and child.  She consented to remain in bed that day, saying she certainly was tired; but, the next, she insisted on getting up; and Dr. Donaldson gave his consent to her returning into the drawing-room.  She was restless and uncomfortable in every position, and before night she became very feverish.  Mr. Hale was utterly listless, and incapable of deciding on anything.

‘What can we do to spare mamma such another night?’ asked Margaret on the third day.

’It is, to a certain degree, the reaction after the powerful opiates I have been obliged to use.  It is more painful for you to see than for her to bear, I believe.  But, I think, if we could get a water-bed it might be a good thing.  Not but what she will be better to-morrow; pretty much like herself as she was before this attack.  Still, I should like her to have a water-bed.  Mrs. Thornton has one, I know.  I’ll try and call there this afternoon.  Stay,’ said he, his eye catching on Margaret’s face, blanched with watching in a sick room, ’I’m not sure whether I can go; I’ve a long round to take.  It would do you no harm to have a brisk walk to Marlborough Street, and ask Mrs. Thornton if she can spare it.’

‘Certainly,’ said Margaret.  ’I could go while mamma is asleep this afternoon.  I’m sure Mrs. Thornton would lend it to us.’

Dr. Donaldson’s experience told them rightly.  Mrs. Hale seemed to shake off the consequences of her attack, and looked brighter and better this afternoon than Margaret had ever hoped to see her again.  Her daughter left her after dinner, sitting in her easy chair, with her hand lying in her husband’s, who looked more worn and suffering than she by far.  Still, he could smile now-rather slowly, rather faintly, it is true; but a day or two before, Margaret never thought to see him smile again.

It was about two miles from their house in Crampton Crescent to Marlborough Street.  It was too hot to walk very quickly.  An August sun beat straight down into the street at three o’clock in the afternoon.  Margaret went along, without noticing anything very different from usual in the first mile and a half of her journey; she was absorbed in her own thoughts, and had learnt by this time to thread her way through the irregular stream of human beings that flowed through Milton streets.  But, by and by, she was struck with an unusual heaving among the mass of people in the crowded road on which she was entering.  They did not appear to be moving on, so much as talking, and listening, and buzzing with excitement, without much stirring from the spot where they might happen to be.  Still, as they made way for her, and, wrapt up in the purpose of her errand, and the necessities that suggested it, she was less quick of observation than she might have been, if