“Good Mrs. Cook,” says he, “Lady Glyde is better.  My mind is more easy than it was, and I am going out to stretch my big legs with a sunny little summer walk.  Shall I order for you, shall I market for you, Mrs. Cook?  What are you making there?  A nice tart for dinner?  Much crust, if you please—­much crisp crust, my dear, that melts and crumbles delicious in the mouth.”  That was his way.  He was past sixty, and fond of pastry.  Just think of that!

The doctor came again in the forenoon, and saw for himself that Lady Glyde had woke up better.  He forbid us to talk to her, or to let her talk to us, in case she was that way disposed, saying she must be kept quiet before all things, and encouraged to sleep as much as possible.  She did not seem to want to talk whenever I saw her, except overnight, when I couldn’t make out what she was saying—­she seemed too much worn down.  Mr. Goodricke was not nearly in such good spirits about her as master.  He said nothing when he came downstairs, except that he would call again at five o’clock.

About that time (which was before master came home again) the bell rang hard from the bedroom, and my mistress ran out into the landing, and called to me to go for Mr. Goodricke, and tell him the lady had fainted.  I got on my bonnet and shawl, when, as good luck would have it, the doctor himself came to the house for his promised visit.

I let him in, and went upstairs along with him.  “Lady Glyde was just as usual,” says my mistress to him at the door; “she was awake, and looking about her in a strange, forlorn manner, when I heard her give a sort of half cry, and she fainted in a moment.”  The doctor went up to the bed, and stooped down over the sick lady.  He looked very serious, all on a sudden, at the sight of her, and put his hand on her heart.

My mistress stared hard in Mr. Goodricke’s face.  “Not dead!” says she, whispering, and turning all of a tremble from head to foot.

“Yes,” says the doctor, very quiet and grave.  “Dead.  I was afraid it would happen suddenly when I examined her heart yesterday.”  My mistress stepped back from the bedside while he was speaking, and trembled and trembled again.  “Dead!” she whispers to herself; “dead so suddenly! dead so soon!  What will the Count say?” Mr. Goodricke advised her to go downstairs, and quiet herself a little.  “You have been sitting up all night,” says he, “and your nerves are shaken.  This person,” says he, meaning me, “this person will stay in the room till I can send for the necessary assistance.”  My mistress did as he told her.  “I must prepare the Count,” she says.  “I must carefully prepare the Count.”  And so she left us, shaking from head to foot, and went out.