Lord Frogmore’s bronchitis was very severe, so bad that the doctors looked very serious, and notwithstanding the vigilance and understanding of Rogers, who knew his master, as he said, better than any of them—insisted upon adding a trained nurse to all the other embarrassments of the great establishment, which were so heavy upon the shoulders of Agnes Hill. The old lord’s grave condition, the ominous announcement of “a change” in her sister’s state, the care of that house full of servants, the jealousy of Rogers who could not endure “the woman” who had been placed over his head, and in the midst of all the two noisy boys. Duke, who was at the Park for his holidays, and little Mar, who considered it part of his religion to do everything that Duke did—went near to overwhelm poor Agnes, who had never been used to any great responsibility, and was anxious beyond what words could say. She might, indeed, have spared herself all trouble about the house, since Mr. Upjames, the butler, was fully equal to any emergency; but the susceptibilities of Rogers were a very serious matter. “The only thing for me to do, Miss ’Ill, is to retire,” he said. “To have a woman put over my head, and one as knows nothing about it, is more than I can be expected to put up with.”

“Oh, Rogers, you must not leave your master. What could he do without you?” cried Agnes, with anxious conciliation.

“That’s what I say, ma’am,” said Rogers. “I’m torn in two, I am. My lord gives me a look! Though he’s choking with his cough, he does like this with his finger; and then he points to her, and he does like that——”

Rogers imitated first the motion of beckoning and then that of pushing away.

“I will speak to the doctor when he comes,” said Agnes. “But oh, Rogers, you would never have the heart to leave him? What does it matter about the nurse? Try to make her useful. She does know a great deal, and she might be useful——”

“She don’t know nothing about my lord. Miss ’Ill, nobody but me knows my lord,” said Rogers solemnly. “I know just what he’ll bear, and what he won’t bear. He can’t be treated like an ’ospital case. And that’s what them women do. As if he was just a number in a bed! He’s been very different all his life, has my lord; and that’s what he won’t bear.”

“No,” said Agnes soothingly, “of course he won’t bear it; and you must just stand between him—— Rogers, what is that? I am sure I heard a carriage driving up to the door.”

“It will be someone coming to inquire,” said Rogers. “Don’t you be frightened, Miss ’Ill. If I can get free of that woman, don’t you be miserable. We’ll pull him through.”

“Do you think it can be anyone coming to inquire?” cried Agnes. “Surely there is a great commotion downstairs. Oh, Rogers, for Heaven’s sake go and see what it is. I heard a cry. What’s that? What’s that? Surely I know that voice.”

Agnes did not know what she feared. There were sounds on the stair which denoted some strange events—many voices together—the sound of steps hurrying. She stood at the door half afraid to open it, listening intently, overcome with alarms which she could not explain. What had happened? The voices came nearer, one of them talking in gentle but persistent tones. Agnes threw up her arms and uttered a wild but faint cry. What did it mean? What could it mean? The wildest hallucination, or her sister’s voice?

And then the door was opened quickly, and into the wintry daylight, in which there was no mystery, Mary walked without excitement—smiling, yet with a serious face, as if she had never left her own house where she was supreme, but was coming upstairs after a private consultation with the doctor, in which he had told her that her husband was ill, but not so ill as to cause any extreme of anxiety. She came in smiling to Agnes, and, taking both her hands, kissed her. “I am so glad,” she said, “to find you here. Then Frogmore has had someone to rely upon. Fancy I have been away on a visit, and they never told me he was ill till to-day.”

“Oh, Mary, dear!” Agnes cried. She was choking with excitement and emotion, but the imperative gesture by which her sister’s companion warned her to be on her guard stopped the tears in her eyes and the words in her mouth. Even in that glance Agnes perceived that it was the doctor in whose care Mary had been placed who came in behind her. This did something to still the beating of her amazed and anxious heart.

“Oh, Rogers,” said Mary, “I am so glad to see you before I go to him. How is he? He was quite well when I left home. Do tell me everything before I go to him: for I am sure you have never left him, you faithful servant—more faithful than his wife,” she said with a smile, turning to the doctor, who stood behind. Lady Frogmore looked exactly as if she had come from a visit as she said, a little troubled that she had not been sent for at once, yet scarcely anxious. Agnes even thought she looked younger, better, more self-possessed than of old.

“You were not aware he was ill, Lady Frogmore. You must rest a little and get warmed, and take something—a cup of tea, perhaps—before you go to his room. You must not take in too much cold air to the room of a patient with bronchitis. In the meantime I will go—shall I?—and bring you an exact report.”

“Do!” said Mary, “that will be the kindest thing. I can trust to what you say. But it is cold this morning,” she added, walking up to the fire. “I must not go and touch my dear old lord with cold hands. How are they at home, Agnes? and how long have you been here?”

“They are quite well,” said Agnes, very tremulous. “My father begins to show signs of getting old——”

“I thought him very well indeed the last time I saw him,” said Mary; “he can’t have grown much older since then. I wonder,” she added, “how Frogmore got this bad cold—it must have been the very night I went away. I think men cease taking care of themselves when they have a wife to do it for them. And Rogers used to coddle him so—I must blame Rogers. He ought to have returned to his old habits and watched him more carefully when I was away. What is this. Upjames? Tea? Yes, give it me; it will warm me. I must be warm, you know, when I go to my lord.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Upjames, in a trembling voice. He was very pale and there was fright in his voice, though he was a large man, and his restored mistress so slim and little likely to harm anyone. “I—I—am so happy, my lady—to see your ladyship so much better.”

“Oh there has been nothing the matter with me,” said Mary, quickly. “I am always well. But you should not have let my lord catch cold, Upjames, the moment my back was turned. How am I ever to go off on a visit again, however short it may be, when you take so little care of my lord?”

The big butler trembled like a leaf, a gasp came from his throat, his large cheeks hung pendulous with fright. “My lady, I——don’t know how it happened,” he stammered forth.

“Oh, I was only joking,” said Mary, “I am sure it was no one’s fault: only there should be double precautions taken about health—by every one—when the mistress of the house is away.” She gave forth this maxim with a precision that had never been usual with Mary. Altogether it seemed to her sister that Lady Frogmore had never been so sure of herself, so conscious of authority before. She drank her tea before the fire with evident comfort and pleasure in her home coming. “After all,” she said, “there is nothing like one’s own house. What is that I see over there? A rocking horse, is it? I suppose it’s a present for one of the Greenpark children. Yes, Mr. Marsden. How do you find my lord?” Fortunately, as Agnes felt, though she scarcely knew why, the doctor came in at this juncture and saved her all further trouble.

“Not so well as I could wish,” said the doctor, “but very glad to you that you have arrived, Lady Frogmore, and anxious to see you. You must not,” he added, laying his hand on her arm, “look anxious, or as if you thought him very ill. His spirits must be kept up.”

Mary rose and put down her teacup on the table. “I am afraid you find him worse than we thought.”

“No,” he said, “oh, no—but only to warn you. He does look a little ill: but he must not see that you are anxious. You must make an effort, Lady Frogmore.”

“I think I do nothing but make efforts,” she said, with a cloud upon her face, standing with her hands clasped together. Then she added, smiling, “But of course I will do what you tell me. How can he have got so ill the little time I have been away?”

Agnes followed, with her heart beating tumultuously in her bosom. What did it all mean? The little time she had been away! What could it mean? Mary spoke as if she had been absent for three days or so—and it was five years! Oh, what could it mean? Agnes followed, not knowing what to do. On her way to the sick-room Mary took off her cloak and furs and her bonnet, which she piled upon a table in the corridor. “Tell Mason to take them,” she said. Mason was the maid who had left the house when Mary had been taken away.

How strange it all was, and incomprehensible! This morning Agnes had trembled for the arrival of the letters, not knowing to what tragic tidings the agitating news of “a change” might have come—and had felt as if the burden of anxiety on her was insupportable. Now—was it lifted from her shoulders, or had it become incalculably more heavy? She could not tell. She followed with tremulous steps to the door of Lord Frogmore’s room, and then came back again, not venturing to enter. There was nothing for it but to wait till some further development should take place, till something should happen—she did not know what she hoped or feared. Lord Frogmore was very ill. Would the sight of him drive his wife back into the frenzy from which she seemed to have escaped? Would her bewildering appearance act favorably or unfavorably upon the old man, whose vitality had fallen so low? Would sorrow, if sorrow was coming, undo the astonishing advantage that had been gained? Of all these confusing questions the mind of Agnes was full to bursting. She tried to return to the morning room where she had been occupying herself as best she could, and keeping down her anxiety when Mary arrived. It was only an hour ago, but how everything had changed! And the boys? What could she say to the boys? How account to them for the strange events that had taken place while they had been out with the forester watching him mark the trees. They were anxious to tell her all about this when they came in, little Mar echoing every word that Duke said, and striking in with little bits of observation of his own. Agnes, generally so admirable a listener, could scarcely hear what they said for the tumult in her own breast. What was she to say to the children? The meeting, when it came, what would it be? Mary, who thought she had been absent on a visit of a few days, what oh what would she say to her son? Poor Agnes was like a woman distracted. She trembled at every sound. And to think that she had to sit at table with those eager boys, and to give them their dinner, and talk to them in terror every moment lest the door should be opened and Mary come in. For what would Mary say to her child?

Every torture comes to an end if we can but wait for it, and the children’s dinner was ended at last: they were so eager about the forester and the trees he was marking to cut down that to Agnes’ intense relief they hurried out again as soon as their food was swallowed. Fortunately nobody had told them of the arrival, or else they had been too much absorbed in their own exciting occupation to dwell upon it. Little Mar knew nothing of his mother. Even if he had heard that Lady Frogmore had come home, the child would probably in the bustle of his childish excitement have put no meaning to the words. And Duke, though he was older and had been Mary’s favorite, yet had much forgotten her, and would think only of his grandmother if he heard that name. This gave poor Agnes a little comfort in the hurry of her thoughts. She sat alone all the day, more anxious and miserable than words could tell. The doctor, Lord Frogmore’s own doctor, came in for a moment to tell her that he found his patient a little better. “What an astonishing recovery this is. It is the most wonderful thing I ever saw,” he said. “She has taken her place by the bedside, as good a nurse as I ever met with. She seems to think of everything. And Lord Frogmore looks quite bright. The cure of one will be the cure of the other I hope. But it is the most wonderful think I ever saw.”

“Do you think it will last, doctor?” cried Agnes.

“Well, one can never say,” he replied, oracularly. “Sometimes these things prove a success, sometimes—not. I could not give an opinion. To tell the truth, I would not trust Lady Frogmore with my patient if Marsden was not there. He keeps in the dressing-room out of sight—but he’s there, and on the watch. These mad doctors have strange ways, but I daresay he’s right. He has his eye on her all the time. He’s not very sure about her, I suppose, or he would not do that; but you and I may make ourselves easy, Miss Hill. It is Lord Frogmore who is my affair—and he is better—certainly better. I will come in the evening and let you know how he is then.”

Agnes, on whom the household affairs told heavily, and who had the anxious concern of a simple woman, to whom the provision of meals is one of the chief businesses of life, about regular food, here put in a troubled question about lunch. What should she do about lunch? She had given the boys their dinner, thinking it better not to disturb Lady Frogmore. But they must have luncheon. What should she do about lunch? It was reassuring to know that a tray had been taken to the dressing-room, and that Lady Frogmore had been attended to by the watchful guardian who was sharing her vigil. It was very strange altogether. It disturbed Agnes in every possible way in which a quiet woman could be disturbed, but yet it was a relief. And Miss Hill sat down again with the needlework which was so poor a pastime in her hands to-day, thinking, wondering, questioning to herself till she could question no more. Many a broken prayer rose to heaven that afternoon for Lord Frogmore. Oh that he might but live. Oh that he might get better! His life was more valuable, Agnes thought, than it ever could have been before. It would be his business to clear up all this imbroglio, to make everything clear. He would have the responsibility, the power would be his alone. And surely, surely, all would go well. Agnes would not look upon the other side of the picture. There must be no other side to the picture. She could not allow herself to think of what darker prospect there might be.

It was evening when Mary came into the drawing-room where Agnes was. The doctors were making their last examination of the patient for the night, and she came in to rest a little, to change the air as she said, to refresh herself. It was time for the boys to go to bed, but they had not paid much attention to Agnes’ entreaties, and in the disorganization of the house, which was full of consternation and inquiry, no authoritative messenger from the nursery had as yet come for little Mar. He was seated on his usual stool before the fire, which gave a ruddy color to his rather pale little face, and sparkled in his dark eyes. Duke lay on the rug stretched out at full length at Agnes’ feet. They were chattering still of their busy day. “I wouldn’t let him mark that old bush,” said little Mar, “it’s like an old man. Not an old man like papa, but one I’ve seen with a long beard. Papa’s an old gentleman, and they say I’m a little old man, and for love of us I wouldn’t have him mark that tree. Oh! Aunt Agnes, here is a lady! Is it the lady that came with a post-chaise, and the marks is all over the grass? Is it——”

“Hush, oh hush, Mar—don’t say a word,” cried Agnes, with her heart leaping in her throat.

Mary came in and sat down besides Agnes, a little behind her back. “I will not come to the fire,” she said, “for Frogmore’s room is very warm. I prefer to get cooled a little. I think he is better, but we will see what the doctors say. They say I ought to lie down, but I don’t think I shall want it to-night. I am quite fresh. One never wants to lie down one’s first night.”

“Oh, my dear, surely, surely they will not let you sit up?”

“Why not?” said Lady Frogmore. “I am quite fresh. I have had no fatigue as yet. And he was so pleased to see me. They all say it has done him good to have me back. What is that on the rug at your feet, Agnes? Why, it is a child! Why it is—Duke, my dear boy! I didn’t know you were here. Why, what a leap you have taken, what a huge great boy you have grown.”

Duke had sprung to his feet in the surprise. There was little light but the light from the fire—and it was five years since he had seen her. He came forward, hesitating a little, abashed and reluctant to be kissed. He was now twelve and big of his age, not apt to go through these salutations with strangers. Mary put her hands on his shoulders and held him from her to see him fully. “I can’t believe my eyes: Duke—are you sure you are Duke? You are twice as big as you were the other day. Agnes, I can scarcely believe my eyes.”

Agnes gave Duke a pull by the arm to stop his exclamation. “Yes,” she said, “he has grown very fast.”

“I never saw any child grow so fast,” said Mary in a bewildered tone. “I should scarcely have known the child.” She let him go with something of disappointment in her tone. “I can scarcely believe he is my little Duke,” she said. And then after a pause, there came the question which Agnes had been all this time trembling to hear. Mary recovered herself, putting away this touch of disappointment, and spoke again in the clear assured tones which were new to her sister.

“And who,” she said, “is this other nice little boy?”

Agnes was overcome by the sufferings of this long and agitating day. Her strength was exhausted. She could bear no more. Little Mar had turned round upon his stool and was gazing at the lady. And she with a smile, and the pleased half interest of a benevolent stranger, looked at him, holding out her hand. “Who,” she said, “is this nice little boy?”

Agnes answered, she could not help it, with something more like a scream than an exclamation, “Oh Mary! Oh Mary!” she cried.

“What is the matter?” said Mary, tranquilly. “I ought to know him, perhaps. He is one of Duke’s little playfellows, I suppose. Who are you, my nice little boy?”