Both girls hurried out to meet them, but all attention was at that moment for the patient, as he was carried in on his mattress, and deposited for a few minutes on the large hall table.  Henrietta pushed between her uncles, and made her way up to him, unconscious of the presence of anyone else—­even of her mother—­while she clasped his hand, and hanging over him looked with an agonized intensity at his motionless features.  The next moment she felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder, and was forced to turn round and look into her face:  the sweet mournful meekness of which came for a moment like a soft cooling breeze upon the dry burning desert of her grief.

“My poor child,” said the gentle voice.

“O, mamma, is—­is—.”  She could not speak; her face was violently agitated, and the very muscles of her throat quivered.

“They hope for the best, my dear,” was the reply; but both Mr. Geoffrey Langford and Beatrice distinguished her own hopelessness in the intonation, and the very form of the expression:  whereas Henrietta only took in and eagerly seized the idea of comfort which it was intended to convey to her.  She would have inquired more, but Mrs. Langford was telling her mother of the arrangements she had made, and entreating her to take some rest.

“Thank you, ma’am,—­thank you very much indeed—­you are very kind:  I am very sorry to give you so much trouble,” were her answers; and simple as were the words, there was a whole world of truth and reality in them.

Preparations were now made for carrying Fred up stairs, but even at that moment Aunt Mary was not without thought for Beatrice, who was retreating, as if she feared to be as much in her way as she had been in Henrietta’s.

“I did not see you, before, Queenie,” she said, holding out her hand and kissing her, “you have gone through more than any one.”

A thrill of fond grateful affection brought the tears into Queen Bee’s eyes.  How much there was even in the pronunciation of that pet playful name to touch her heart, and fill it to overflowing with love and contrition.  She longed to pour out her whole confession, but there was no one to attend to her—­the patient occupied the whole attention of all.  He was carried to his mother’s room, placed in bed, and again examined by young Mr. Carey, who pronounced with increased confidence that there was no fracture, and gave considerable hopes of improvement.  While this was passing, Henrietta sat on the upper step of the stairs, her head on her hands, scarcely moving or answering when addressed.  As evening twilight began to close in, the surgeon left the room, and went down to make his report to those who were anxiously awaiting it in the drawing-room; and she took advantage of his exit to come to the door, and beg to be let in.