One day, a week after the events related in the last chapter, Dr. Staunton suddenly walked into the little parlor where Effie and her mother were sitting together.

Effie sprang up at sight of him. Some needlework over which she had been busy fell to the floor. A rush of color came into her cheeks.

"Oh, father, father!" she exclaimed, "how delightful it is to see you again! Oh, how glad we are! Is little Freda really better? How is Mrs. Harvey? And—have you come back to stay, father?"

"I can't answer such a lot of questions all together, child," said the doctor, with a smile. "Yes, I have come home to stay. The fact is, I am tired out, and simply with doing nothing. Ever since that blessed angel of a woman, Dorothy Fraser, came to The Grange, there has been little or nothing for me to do. Yes, that's a fact; I am worn-out with doing nothing. I should like a cup of tea beyond anything. Make it strong for me, my dear—strong and fragrant."

"The kettle is boiling," said Effie. "I won't be a minute. Oh, it is delightful to have you back!" She ran out of the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

Dr. Staunton went over and sat on the sofa by his wife.

"At last, my darling," he said, putting his arms round her, "I am safe back again. You see that for yourself, thank God."

"Thank God, John," replied Mrs. Staunton. "I have missed you," she repeated.

She held out both her thin hands. The doctor put his own strong, sinewy hands round them. He clasped them tightly.

"Oh, how hot you are!" she said, starting back and looking anxiously at him. "Your fingers almost burn me."

"I am simply tired, that's all," he replied,—"tired out with doing nothing. I don't believe The Grange is a wholesome place; it is big and grand and richly furnished, but the air does not suit me. I suspect there is something wrong with the drains. The drains are probably at the root of all this mischief to poor little Freda, but let us forget all that now. Let me look at you, wife. How are you? Why, you look bonnie, bonnie!"

He stretched out his hand and passed it gently over his wife's faded cheek. "I have been thinking of you morning, noon, and night," he said. "You have never been out of my thoughts for a moment, you and the children—that dear little Effie in particular, but the other children too. I had time to pause and consider during those days of waiting at The Grange, and I could not help remembering that, if anything happened to me, there were five children unprovided for—five children, and you, Mary, with the strength of a mouse in you."

"That's all you know," replied Mrs. Staunton, with a little show of spirit. "I am better; I have made wonderful progress during the last few days. You can't think what a good nurse Effie has been—the most considerate, the most thoughtful, the most kind and clever darling you can possibly imagine. She manages the whole house; our servants would do anything for her, and the children love her so much that it is a pleasure to them to obey her. She has that wonderful and invaluable knack in a woman, she never teases or worries; she just contrives to turn people round her little finger, without their knowing anything about it themselves. But now don't let us talk any more about Effie and me. I want to hear your news. How is Mrs. Harvey? How has she borne the death of her poor little baby?"

"It lived just two hours after its birth," said the doctor, with a sad look on his face. "The shock the poor mother underwent evidently had some effect upon it. Well, she is getting on splendidly—she seemed to know from the first that her poor little baby would not live, but as Freda is doing so well, not a murmuring word has passed her lips. She is a sweet young woman, and I am thankful to say I don't believe she took a scrap of infection from poor little Freda."

"And the little one; is she continuing to get better?"

"She is doing magnificently—thanks to that fine creature, Dorothy Fraser. I never came across such a woman. If you only saw, Mary, the state of hopeless confusion, of pandemonium—for it really amounted to that—of that wretched house the morning Miss Fraser arrived; if you could only have seen the condition of the sickroom, and then have gone into it two hours later, why, it was like stepping from the infernal regions into paradise. The order of the sickroom seemed to affect the whole house. The servants ceased to be in a state of panic, the meals were properly cooked, the Squire came back to his normal condition, and Mrs. Harvey became quite cheerful. In short, except for the loss of her poor little one, she seems to have had no ill effects from the terrible strain she has undergone. Little Freda is making rapid marches toward recovery, and I do not at present see the slightest trace of the disease spreading through the house."

"Have you seen Freda often?" asked Mrs. Staunton.

"No; that good soul simply forbade it—I was like wax in her hands. Of course her reason was a very legitimate one, or I should not have submitted to it, for it would not have been safe for me to have attended to Mrs. Harvey coming straight from the child's room. All is now going on well at The Grange, and I can come home and rest."

"I wish you did not look so dreadfully worn out," said Mrs. Staunton.

"Oh, the home air will soon pull me together. Heigh-ho! here you come, my good angel, and the tea is more than welcome."

The doctor sank back in his deep armchair.

Effie placed the fragrant tea on the table, and, pouring out a cup, brought it to her father. She had made crisp toast as well, but he did not care to eat.

"Thank you, child," he said; "I am not hungry. The meals up at that place are preposterous—nothing short of preposterous. There is no doubt whatever that far more people die from eating too much than from eating too little. I wonder the Squire has a scrap of digestion left—heavy meat breakfasts, heavy meat luncheons, and then a groaning dinner at the end of the day. Such meals, and practically nothing to do for them!—for what has a man of that sort to occupy his time beyond what one would call fiddle-faddle? Well, this tea is refreshing; I will go for a walk afterward. And now tell me, Effie, have you heard anything about my patients?"

"Mr. Edwards called this morning, and said they were all doing well," said Effie. "The little Beels have got whooping-cough, but I do not think anyone else is ill. Of course poor Mrs. Watson is much as usual, but hers is a chronic case."

"Ah, yes, poor soul,"—the doctor gave an apprehensive glance toward his wife. "I cannot call to see Mrs. Watson for a day or two," he said; "not that there is the least scrap of infection, for I changed everything before I came home, but in her state it would not do to make her feel nervous. Well, wife and daughter, it is good to see you both again; and now I am going out for a stroll."

The doctor left the room. Effie stood by the table. She was putting back his empty cup on the tray, and preparing to take the things into the kitchen, when her mother spoke.

"What is the matter with your father?" she said in a husky voice.

Effie slightly turned her back. "He is just tired," she answered; "that's all."

"Put down that tray, Effie, and come here," said her mother.

Effie obeyed.

"Yes, mother," she said. "Now, mother darling, you are not going to get nervous?"

"No, no, I am not nervous," said Mrs. Staunton,—her lips trembled slightly,—"I am not nervous. Nothing shall make me show nervousness or weakness of any sort in a time of real extremity. But, Effie, child, I know something."

"What in the world do you know, mother?" Effie tried to smile.

"Your father is ill. The unimportant people have escaped, but he has taken this complaint. He is ill, Effie—I know it."

"Now, mother, is that likely?" said Effie. "Father comes home tired, he has gone through a great deal of anxiety—has he not all his life been exposed to infection of all kinds? Why should he be ill now? Besides, if he were ill, he would say so. Mother, darling, I cannot listen to this kind of talk."

"All right, my dear, I will say no more. It sometimes happens so, Effie. Lives we think of no account are spared—spared on indefinitely. The one life on which so many others hang is taken."

"Mother, I do not understand you."

"I understand myself," said Mrs. Staunton. "I know what I fear. Nay, I do not fear it—I rise up with strength to meet it. You will see, Effie, dear, that your mother is no coward in any real danger."

"You are a dear," said Effie. "You are the best and most unselfish mother in the world. I feel ashamed of myself when I see how bravely you struggle against the weakness and the anxiety which must be yours, more or less, always. But now, mother, dear, you will not look trouble in the face before it comes—you will not meet it halfway. If you are really better, come out into the garden, and we will take a turn before dinner."

"Very well, my dear."

"I want to show you the sweet-peas that have come up in the south border," continued Effie. "Come, let us talk of pleasant things, and be cheerful when father comes home."

"Oh, I will be perfectly cheerful," said Mrs. Staunton.

She went into the good-sized garden at the back of the little cottage, and began with nervous, energetic fingers to pick some flowers, and to arrange them in a big nosegay.

"We will put these in the center of the supper-table," she said. "I should like to have everything as bright and cheerful as possible for your father to-night."

"Yes, that's capital," said Effie.

"We ought to have something particularly good for him to eat, Effie."

"But, mother, he said he wasn't hungry. You remember how he complained of having so many meals at The Grange."

"Yes, yes, he always was a most abstemious man; but I know what he never can resist, and that is cold raspberry tart and cream. There are plenty of raspberries ripe in the plantation—I will gather some, and I'll make the pastry for the tart myself."

"Very well, mother; but is it well for you to fag yourself picking those raspberries, and then making the tart?"

"I want to make it—I should love to make it. I used to be famed for my pastry. My mother used to say, 'You have a light hand for pastry, Mary.' I remember so well when I made my first tart. I was just fifteen—it was my fifteenth birthday. Mother showed me how to do it; and I remember how the water ran all over the pastry-board. Afterward I was the best hand at pastry in the house. Yes, I'll make the tart myself. Here is sixpence, Effie; run to the dairy and get some cream. And listen, love, as you go through the house you might tell Jane to get the pastry-board ready."

"All right, mother, I'll tell her to put it in the larder. You must not go into the hot kitchen to make that tart."

"Very well, child, I'll remember. Now run and get the cream."

Effie left her mother standing by the raspberry plantation. She was pulling the ripe raspberries and dropping them into a large cabbage leaf which she held. Her slender but weak figure was drawn up to its full height. There was a look of nervous energy about her which Effie had not observed for many a long day. The curious phase into which her mother had entered had an alarming effect upon the young girl. It frightened her far more than her father's look of lassitude and the burning touch of his hands. She tried to turn her thoughts from it. After all, why should she become nervous herself, and meet trouble halfway?

She went across the village street, and entering the pretty dairy, asked for the cream.

"Is it true, Miss Staunton, that the doctor has come back again?" asked the woman of the shop, as she handed her the jug of cream across the counter.

"Yes, Mrs. Pattens, it is quite true," replied Effie. "There's good news now at The Grange. Mrs. Harvey is doing splendidly, and little Freda is nearly well again."

"Well, it is a good thing the doctor can be spared," said the woman; "we want him bad enough here, and it seemed cruel-like that he should have been sort of buried alive at The Grange."

"He is only able to be spared now," said Effie, "because he has secured the services of a very wonderful nurse."

"Oh, one of the Fraser girls," said the woman, in a tone of contempt—"those newcomers, who have not been settled in the place above a year. For my part, I don't hold with lady-nurses. I am told they are all stuck-up and full of airs, and that they need a sight more waiting on than the patients themselves. When you get a lady-nurse into the house you have to think more of the nurse than of the patient, that's what I am told."

"It is not true," replied Effie, her eyes flashing angrily—"at least," she continued, "it is not true in the case of Nurse Fraser. You must get my father to talk to you about her some day. I am afraid I haven't time to spare now. Good-evening, Mrs. Pattens."

Effie went home with her jug of cream. Mrs. Staunton was still in the larder making the raspberry tart. Effie went and watched her, as her long thin fingers dabbled in the flour, manipulated the roller, spread out the butter, and presently produced a light puff paste, which, as Effie expressed it, looked almost as if you could blow it away.

"That's the best raspberry tart I have ever made," said Mrs. Staunton. "Now we will put it in the oven."