At length Zillah came in hurriedly, excusing herself for being so long.  This youngest of the Denyers was now a tall awkward, plain girl, with a fixed expression of trouble; in talking, she writhed her fingers together and gave other signs of nervousness; she spoke in quick, short sentences, often breaking off in embarrassment.  During the years of her absence from home as a teacher, Zillah had undergone a spiritual change; relieved from the necessity of sustaining the Denyer tone, she had by degrees ceased to practise affectation with herself, and one by one the characteristics of an “emancipated” person had fallen from her.  Living with a perfectly conventional family, she adopted not only the forms of their faith—­in which she had, of course, no choice—­but at length the habit of their minds; with a profound sense of solace, she avowed her self-deceptions, and became what nature willed her to be—­a daughter of the Church.  The calamities that had befallen her family had all worked in this direction with her, and now that her daily life was in a sick-chamber, she put forth all her best qualities, finding in accepted creeds that kind of support which only the very few among women can sincerely dispense with.

“She has been very, very ill the last few days,” was her reply to Cecily’s inquiry.  “I don’t venture to leave her for more than a few minutes.”

“Mrs. Denyer is away!”

“Yes; she is staying at Sir Roland’s, in Lincolnshire.  Barbara and her husband are there, and they sent her an invitation.”

“But haven’t you a nurse?”

“I’m afraid I shall be obliged to find one.”

“Can I help you to-night?  Do let me.  I have only been home two days, and came in reply to your letter as soon as I could.”

They went up to Zillah’s room, and Cecily threw aside her out-of-door clothing.  Then they silently entered the sick-chamber.

Madeline was greatly changed in the short time since Cecily had seen her.  Ceaseless pain had worn away the last traces of her girlish beauty; the drawn features, the deadened eyes, offered hope that an end must come before long.  She gave a look of recognition as the visitor approached her, but did not attempt to speak.

“Are you easier again, dear?” Zillah asked, bending over her.

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Elgar would like to stay with you a little.  She won’t ask you to talk.”

“Very well.  Go and rest while she stays.”

“Yes, go and lie down,” urged Cecily.  “Please do!  I will call you at once if it is necessary.”

Zillah was persuaded, and Cecily took her seat alone by the bedside.  She had lost all thought of herself.  The tremor which possessed her when she entered was subsiding; the unutterable mournfulness of this little room made everything external to it seem of small account.  She knew not whether it was better to speak or remain mute, and when silence had lasted for a few minutes, she could not trust her voice to break it.  But at length the motionless girl addressed her.