On the first day that she rose from her bed, she went, with the nurse’s aid, to her mother’s room.  What she saw there was a new shock; her mother’s face had aged incredibly, and wore a look of such feeble intelligence that to meet her eyes was more than painful.  Upon the artificial maintenance of her strength throughout Emily’s illness had followed a collapse of the vital powers; it seemed doubtful whether she would ever regain her normal state of mind and body.  She knew her daughter, and, when Emily kissed her, the muscles of her haggard face contracted in what was meant for a smile; but she could not use her voice above a whisper, and her words were seldom consequent.

Two days later Mrs. Baxendale again paid a visit.  Emily was sitting in her bed-room, unoccupied, on her countenance the sorrow-stricken gravity which never quitted it.  The visitor, when she had made her inquiries, seemed to prepare herself to speak of some subject at once important and cheerful.

‘For a fortnight,’ she said, ’I have had staying with me someone whom you will be glad to hear of—­your nearest friend.’

Emily raised her eyes slowly to the speaker’s face; clearly she understood, but was accustoming herself to this unexpected relation between Mrs. Baxendale and Wilfrid.

‘Mr. Athel came from Switzerland as soon as he heard of your illness.’

‘How did he hear?’ Emily inquired, gravely.

’My niece, Miss Redwing, whom you knew, happened to be visiting me.  She wrote to Mrs. Rossall.’

Emily was silent.  The lines of her mouth showed a slight tremor, but no colour sought her cheeks.  The news was affecting her strongly, but only in the way in which she now received every impression; physical weakness had the effect of reducing outward demonstration of feeling, and her spiritual condition favoured passiveness.

‘He has asked me to give you a letter, Emily,’ pursued Mrs. Baxendale, saddened by the sight of such intense sadness.

Emily took the letter, and laid it on a table near her, murmuring her thanks.

‘He is well?’ she asked, as the other did not speak.

’Quite; his holiday has completely restored him.  You can’t think how glad I am to have come to know him, and to have him near me.  Such excellent friends we are!  You can think how anxious he has been; and his father scarcely less so.  The inquiries have been constant.  The others have just got home; Mr. Athel had a letter from London this morning.  The little girls send you a message; I believe you will find the letter enclosed.’

At the mention of the twins, the slightest smile came upon Emily’s lips.

‘You are fond of them, I see,’ said the lady.  ’That they ire fond of you, needs no telling.  Oh, and Clara writes from Germany to ask if she may write to you yet.  Shall I let her?’

A few more words, and Mrs. Baxendale rose.  Emily retained her hand.