Outside the entrance the people waited as if they wanted to see her again.  Foreheads were touched as before, and eyes followed her.  She was to the general mind the centre of the drama, and “the A’mighty” would do well to hear her.  She had been doing his work for him “same as his lordship.”  They did not expect her to smile at such a time, when she returned their greetings, and she did not, but they said afterwards, in their cottages, that “trouble or not she was a wonder for looks, that she was—­Miss Vanderpoel.”

Rosalie slipped a hand through her arm, and they walked home together, very close to each other.  Now and then there was a questioning in Rosy’s look.  But neither of them spoke once.

On an oak table in the hall a letter from Mr. Penzance was lying.  It was brief, hurried, and anxious.  The rumour that Mount Dunstan had been ailing was true, and that they had felt they must conceal the matter from the villagers was true also.  For some baffling reason the fever had not absolutely declared itself, but the young doctors were beset by grave forebodings.  In such cases the most serious symptoms might suddenly develop.  One never knew.  Mr. Penzance was evidently torn by fears which he desperately strove to suppress.  But Betty could see the anguish on his fine old face, and between the lines she read dread and warning not put into words.  She believed that, fearing the worst, he felt he must prepare her mind.

“He has lived under a great strain for months,” he ended.  “It began long before the outbreak of the fever.  I am not strong under my sense of the cruelty of things—­and I have never loved him as I love him to-day.”

Betty took the letter to her room, and read it two or three times.  Because she had asked intelligent questions of the medical authority she had consulted on her visit to London, she knew something of the fever and its habits.  Even her unclerical knowledge was such as it was not well to reflect upon.  She refolded the letter and laid it aside.

“I must not think.  I must do something.  It may prevent my listening,” she said aloud to the silence of her room.

She cast her eyes about her as if in search.  Upon her desk lay a notebook.  She took it up and opened it.  It contained lists of plants, of flower seeds, of bulbs, and shrubs.  Each list was headed with an explanatory note.

“Yes, this will do,” she said.  “I will go and talk to Kedgers.”

Kedgers and every man under him had been at the service, but they had returned to their respective duties.  Kedgers, giving directions to some under gardeners who were clearing flower beds and preparing them for their winter rest, turned to meet her as she approached.  To Kedgers the sight of her coming towards him on a garden path was a joyful thing.  He had done wonders, it is true, but if she had not stood by his side with inspiration as well as confidence, he knew that things might have “come out different.”