During Waveney's indisposition Everard Ward had been constantly at the Red House, and these visits had been full of consolation to both father and daughter. Althea's kindly welcome and womanly gentleness had, from the first, put him at his ease. Both she and Doreen had cordially pressed him to repeat his visits, as they gave Waveney so much pleasure. Once, when the sisters were out, and Waveney was making tea for him in the library, she asked him suddenly why Mr. Ingram never called at the Red House.

"I do not think it is quite kind and cousinly," she said, rather seriously.

Everard seemed a little embarrassed by the question.

"Why, you see," he replied, in rather a hesitating way, "Ingram is so fully engaged. He is up at our place regularly every morning and evening. He does not seem able to exist away from it. Mollie ought to consider herself a lucky little girl," he continued, thoughtfully, "for I never saw a man more deeply in love. He is a fine fellow—Ingram—the best-hearted fellow I know; and I only hope"—and here he looked at Waveney rather searchingly—"that our dear Mollie values him as he deserves."

"I think Mollie is beginning to care for him," returned Waveney; "at least, I fancy so. But, of course, one can only guess at her feelings. You see, he has given her so much pleasure. And she has learnt to depend on him so much for companionship and sympathy, that it would be strange if she were to harden her heart against him, at last. But, father,"—her voice deepening with emotion,—"do you think he is quite good enough for our sweet Mollie? He is very kind and amusing—our dear little Monsieur Blackie, but——" Everard interrupted her abruptly.

"Pshaw, what a ridiculous name! I think it is quite time that you and Noel dropped it. Monsieur Blackie, indeed! Absurd! I cannot imagine why you have all taken such a liberty with him." Everard spoke in such a ruffled tone that Waveney stared at him in surprise.

"But, father, dear, he likes it. He is as proud of the name as possible. In his little notes to us he always signs himself 'Monsieur Blackie.'" And then she added, rather wickedly, "You know, dear, the name does suit him so perfectly. If he were tall, and handsome, and dignified, we should have found him quite a different name."

But this explanation did not seem to please Everard. "Nonsense, child!" he said, quite sharply. "What do looks matter? A good heart, and a generous nature, are worth far more. Some of the greatest men in the world were short of stature. Nelson and Napoleon—oh! and many others. But girls are so silly and sentimental, they prefer some Adonis six feet high, with an empty purse and head."

Waveney laughed merrily at this. Then a sudden thought came to her.

"Father," she said, rather gravely, "it is easy to see that Mr. Ingram will have no difficulty with you, and that you are his best friend. Has he"—and here she hesitated, and flushed—"has he spoken to you yet? I mean, has he told you that he loves Mollie?"

"My little Waveney, that is not a fair question," returned Everard, quickly. "But I suppose that there is no harm in telling you that I am most certainly in Ingram's confidence. Now, no more questions; he has begged me to respect his secret. Yes"—rising from his seat, and speaking with repressed excitement—"he has my best wishes for his success. Now I must go, dear child, for I have promised to dine with him and Noel."

When Everard had gone, Waveney sat down by the fire; the conversation had given her plenty of food for thought. Her father was in Ingram's confidence; it was evident that he fully approved of him as a prospective son-in-law—that Ingram's generosity and kindness of heart had won him over completely. "I like him," she said to herself, "and I think I could get fond of him as a brother; but in Mollie's place"—and here Waveney shook her head. The vision of a grave, strong face, with keen, thoughtful grey eyes, seemed to rise before her; a quiet, cultured voice vibrated in her ears. Well, Mollie was welcome to her Black Prince. To her there was only one man in the world, and his name was Thorold Chaytor.

This little talk had taken place two or three days before her interview with Thorold that Sunday afternoon. After that she thought less about Mr. Ingram. She was reading her own version of the old, old story, which most women read once in their lives; and though the opening chapter was headed "Waiting and Patience," it was none the less sweet and engrossing to the reader. There was something heroic to her in Thorold's silence and self-renunciation. "He is great because he has learnt to conquer himself," she thought. "Most men are dominated by their own passions and prefer inclination to duty." And then, like a true woman, she reverenced him the more.

It was the longest week that Waveney had ever passed, and it seemed as though Thursday would never come.

Althea had promised to have luncheon with Mrs. Mainwaring that day, so she proposed to drive Waveney over to Cleveland Terrace about noon. She had already made her preparations for the interview by sending Mollie the prettiest and daintiest blue dressing-gown. Mollie, who was still very weak, had shed tears over the gift; but Nurse Helena had only laughed at her, and made her try it on.

Everard was in the studio, touching up a picture that one of his pupils had painted, when Waveney entered. She was rather pale and breathless. How shabby and bare the dear old room looked to her, after her long absence! And yet, in spite of its dinginess, how she loved it!

"Oh, father, how nice it is to be here again!" she said, softly, as she stood near him. And Everard smiled and patted her cheek.

"Ingram left those flowers for you," he said, pointing to a charming bouquet on Mollie's little painting-table. "He was so sorry that he could not wait and see you, but he had to meet an old friend at his club." But before Waveney could make any reply to this, or look at her flowers, a pleasant-looking woman in nurse's garb entered. She had a gentle face, and kind eyes, and Waveney went up to her at once and took her hand.

"You are my sister's Nurse Helena," she said, quickly. "Thank you for all your care of Mollie. May I see her soon?"

"Certainly. Will you come with me now? Miss Ward heard the carriage stop, and she sent me down to bring you up at once. I need not caution you," she continued, as they went upstairs, "to be very quiet, as my patient is still weak. She is on the new couch that Mr. Ingram sent for her use, and I think you will say she looks very comfortable." Waveney was far too agitated to answer. As Nurse Helena opened the door, she heard Mollie's dear, familiar voice say, in weak accents, "Wave, darling, is it really you?" and the next moment she was kneeling by the couch, and she and Mollie were clasped in each other's arms, and Mollie's thin white cheek was wetted by her sister's tears.

"Wave, dear, you must not cry so," whispered Mollie, in a troubled voice. "I am better, and Nurse Helena says that I get stronger every day." Then Waveney, ashamed of her want of self-control, and remembering the nurse's injunction, brushed away her tears and tried to smile.

"I have wanted my old sweetheart so badly," she faltered, and with difficulty she repressed a sob; in spite of her pallor, Mollie looked lovelier than ever—almost too fragile and beautiful, Waveney thought, with that faint flush of excitement on her wasted cheeks, and the violet lines under the large eyes.

"Not more than I have wanted you, darling," returned Mollie, softly. "Wave, I want to see your dear face more clearly. Look, Nurse Helena has put that seat close to me, so that I can hold your hand, and we can talk comfortably. She is going to leave us alone for a quarter of an hour, and I have promised to be good and not tire myself." Then, as Nurse Helena closed the door, "Oh, Wave, it is almost worth all the pain and weariness, to have such happiness as this!"

"It is almost too good to be true," returned Waveney, tenderly. "Dear Mollie, it has been such a dreadful time. If I could only have borne the pain for you! But to know you were suffering, and that strangers were nursing you, and I could do nothing—nothing——" and a faint shudder crossed her as she remembered those days of anguish and suspense.

"Hush, darling," replied Mollie; but there were tears in her eyes. "We will not talk about that sad time now. Do you think I did not know what my Waveney was feeling? That night I was so bad, and I thought that perhaps I should die, I prayed that I might see you once more, and that we might bid each other good-bye. There, don't fret," for Waveney was kneeling beside her again, with her face hidden in the pillow. "I only want to tell you how good Nurse Helena was to me, and how she comforted me. I was very miserable the next day, though I believe I was really better; and when Nurse Helena asked me what was troubling me, I told her it was because I was so wicked that I felt I could not be happy in heaven, if my Waveney were breaking her heart about me here, and that with such feelings I was not fit to die. And she said, in such a comforting way,—

"'But you are not going to heaven yet, my child, so you need not trouble your head about leaving your sister. As for feeling wicked—well, we are none of us angels, but it is my belief that our Heavenly Father will not be angry with us for loving those He has given us to love.' Oh, she is such a sweet woman, Wave! If you only knew her you would like her as much as I do. Nurse Miriam was very kind, too, but she is not as nice as Nurse Helena."

"I love her already for being so good to my darling," returned Waveney; and then she tried to smile. "Mollie, dear, there is some one else to whom we owe gratitude."

Then a swift, undefinable change passed over Mollie's face.

"I know whom you mean," she returned in a low voice; "and father has told me how good he has been. It was Mr. Ingram who sent Sir Hindley down, and he made him come three times. Nurse Helena says his fees are tremendous, and that he is the greatest throat doctor in the world. And then he is paying for the nurses. I found that out the other day. And every day something comes—game, and wine, and fruit, and flowers, and yesterday this lovely couch. Oh, Wave, somehow it oppresses me to think of it all, for how is one to repay such kindness?"

"We will think about that, dear, when you are stronger. Oh, we shall have so much to talk about and to plan, so you must make haste and get well, for I cannot do without my sweetheart any longer."

Then Mollie smiled, well satisfied.

"Oh, dear, how nice it will be!" she said, in rather a tired voice. "Do you know, Wave, Miss Althea sent me a message by father the other day. She has promised to spare you to me whenever I want you, and when I go to the sea you are to come, too."

This was news to Waveney.

"I have heard nothing about it. Are you quite sure?" she asked, doubtfully.

"Quite sure," returned Mollie, decidedly; "but it was only settled last night. He—Mr. Ingram, I mean"—and here Mollie spoke rather hurriedly and nervously, "was talking to father. He said change of air was necessary after such an illness, and that the doctor wished it, and that I should never get strong without it. And then father gave in, and it was decided that I should go as soon as possible, and that you and Nurse Helena were to come, too. Oh, there she comes," as the nurse opened the door, "but I am sure our quarter of an hour is not up yet."

"It is just twenty minutes," observed Nurse Helena, composedly. "Just five minutes too long, I can see, by your face. Miss Ward, will you bid your sister good-bye, please? I should like her to be quiet for a little before her dinner."

"Yes, you must go, Wave," observed Mollie, with ready submission; "but you are to have dinner with father before you go back, and I am to see you again on Sunday." And then the sisters kissed each other silently. But as Waveney turned on the threshold for a last look, Mollie waved her hand. "Oh, it has been so nice," she said, feebly, "and I am so happy." But, almost before Waveney was downstairs, Mollie was asleep.

"Well," observed Everard, with a questioning smile, "have you talked Mollie into a fever?"

"I am afraid we did talk rather too much," returned Waveney, penitently, "for Mollie looked very tired when I left. But, father, how weak and thin she is! I could not help fretting when I saw her. But she looks sweeter than ever, dear thing, and Miss Althea's blue dressing-gown is lovely! She was quite a picture with that Indian silk rug over her feet, and all those beautiful flowers beside her."

"Ingram again," returned Everard, with a groan. "Do you know, he is actually going to Eastbourne next week to take lodgings for her and Nurse Helena, and nothing I can say will stop him."

"Mollie says I am to go, too," observed Waveney, anxiously.

"Yes, dear, Miss Harford proposed that, and I think she is right in saying that you need a change, too; you are looking thin and pale, my child."

"Oh, I am very well," she replied, hastily; and then Ann, the heavy-footed, came up to tell them that dinner was ready. After that, as Waveney was too restless to stay in the house, they went out for a walk, and strolled in Old Ranelagh gardens, and then down the lime walk and along the embankment to Cheyne Walk; and then, as it was growing dusk, they walked on quickly to Sloane Square, and Everard put her in the train.

"Good-bye until Sunday, father, dear," were her last words, as the train moved off. But that night, before Waveney fell asleep happily in her Pansy Room, Nurse Helena's homely words recurred to her.

"Well, we are none of us angels, but it is my belief that our Heavenly Father will not be angry with us for loving those He has given us to love."

"Thank God for that," she murmured, "and that it is no sin that I love my Mollie so intensely." And in the dying firelight Waveney folded her little hands together, and with a grateful heart said her Te Deum.