“There is very little hasty pudding in the case,” said Fred, rather disconsolately, and at the same time rather drolly, and with a sort of resolution of this kind, “I will try then, I will not bother mamma, let that Carey serve me as he may.  I will not make a fuss, if I can help it, unless he is very unreasonable indeed, and when I get well I will submit to be coddled in an exemplary manner; I only wonder when I shall feel up to anything again!  O! what a nuisance it is to have this swimming head and aching knees, all by the fault of that Carey!”

Uncle Geoffrey said no more, for he thought a hint often was more useful than a lecture, even if Fred had been in a state for the latter, and besides he was in greater request than ever on this last evening, so much so that it seemed as if no one was going to spare him even to have half an hour’s talk with his wife.  He did find the time for this at last, however, and his first question was, “What do you think of the little Bee?”

“I think with great hope, much more satisfactorily than I have been able to do for some time past,” was the answer.

“Poor child, she has felt it very deeply,” said he, “I have been grieved to have so little time to bestow on her.”

“I am disposed to think,” said Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, thoughtfully, “that it was the best thing for her to be thrown on herself.  Too much talk has always been the mischief with her, as with many another only child, and it struck me to-day as a very good sign that she said so little.  There was something very touching in the complete absence of moralizing to-day.”

“None of her sensible sayings,” said her father, with a gratified though a grave smile.  “It was perfectly open confession, and yet with no self in it.  Ever since the accident there has been a staidness and sedateness about her manner which seemed like great improvement, as far as I have seen.  And when it was proposed for her to go to Lady Susan, I was much pleased with her, she was so simple:  ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I hope I shall be able to make her comfortable:’  no begging off, no heroism.  And really, Beatrice, don’t you think we could make some other arrangement?  It is too great a penance for her, poor child.  Lady Susan will do very well, and I can have an eye to her; I am much inclined to leave the poor little Queen here with you.”

“No, no, Geoffrey,” said his wife, “that would never do:  I do not mean on my aunt’s account, but on the Busy Bee’s; I am sure, wish it as we may,” and the tears were in her eyes, “this is no time for even the semblance of neglecting a duty for her sake.”

“Not so much hers as yours,” said Mr. Geoffrey Langford, “you have more on your hands than I like to leave you alone to encounter, and she is a valuable little assistant.  Besides you have been without her so long, it is your turn to keep her now.”

“No, no, no,” she repeated, though not without an effort, “it is best as it is settled for all, and decidedly so for me, for with her to write to me about you every day, and to look after you, I shall be a hundred times more at ease than if I thought you were working yourself to death with no one to remonstrate.”