Things began to fall into their regular course at Ratzes, Lady Northmoor was in a day or two able to come into Mrs. Bury’s sitting-room for a few hours every day; but there she lay on a folding chaise-longue that had been arranged for her, languid but bright, reading, working, looking at Mrs. Bury’s drawings, and keeping the diary of the adventures of the others.

Her husband would fain never have left her, but he had to take his baths. These were in the lower story of the larger chÂlet. They were taken in rows of pinewood boxes in the vault. He muttered that it felt very like going alive into his coffin, when, like others, he laid himself down in the rust-coloured liquid, ‘each in his narrow cell’ in iron ‘laid,’ with his head on a shelf, and a lid closing up to his chin, and he was uncheered by conversation, as all the other patients were Austrians of the lower middle class, and their Tyrolean dialect would have been hard to understand even by German scholars. However, the treatment certainly did him good, and entirely drove away his neuralgia, he walked, rode, and climbed a good deal with Constance and a lad attached to the establishment, whose German Constance could just understand. And while he stayed with his wife, Mrs. Bury took Constance out, showed her many delights, helped her crude notions of drawing, and being a good botanist herself, taught the whole party fresh pleasures in the wonderful flora of the Dolomites.

Now and then an English traveller appeared, and Lord Northmoor was persuaded to join in expeditions for his niece’s sake, that took them away for a night or two. Thus they saw Caprile Cadore, St. Ulrich, that town of toys, full of dolls of every tone, spotted wooden horses, carts, and the like. They beheld the tall points of Monte Serrata, and the wonderful ‘Horse Teeth,’ with many more such marvels; and many were the curiosities they brought back, and the stories they had to tell, with regrets that Aunt Mary had not been there to enjoy and add to their enjoyment.

So the days went on, and the end of Constance’s holidays was in view, the limit that had been intended for the Kur at Ratzes; but Aunt Mary had not been out of doors since their arrival, and seemed fit for nothing save lying by the window.

Constance had begun to wonder what would be done, when she was told that a good-natured pair of English travellers, like herself bound to school terms, would escort her safely to London and see her into the train for Colbeam, just in time for the High School term.

‘This will be the best way,’ said her aunt, kissing her. ‘You have been a dear good girl, Conny, and a great pleasure and comfort to us both.’

‘Oh, auntie, I have not done anything, Mrs. Bury has done it all.’

‘Mrs. Bury is most kind, unspeakably kind, but, my dear dear girl, your companionship has been so much to your dear uncle that I have been most thankful to you. Always recollect, dearest Conny, you can be more comfort to your uncle than anybody else, whatever may come. You will always be a good girl and keep up your tone, and make him your great consideration—after higher things; promise me.’

‘Oh yes, indeed, auntie dear,’ said the girl, somewhat frightened and bewildered as the last kisses and good-byes were exchanged. Since the travellers were to start very early the next morning on their mules for Botzen, whither Mrs. Bury meant to accompany them in order to make some purchases, Lord Northmoor went with the party to the limits of his walking powers, and on the slope of the Alp, amid the fir-woods, took his leave, Mrs. Bury telling him cheerfully that she should return the next day, while he said that he could not thank her enough. He bade farewell to his niece, telling her that he hoped she would by and by be spending her holidays at Northmoor if all went well.

Constance had begun to grow alarmed, and watched for an opportunity of imploring Mrs. Bury to tell her whether Aunt Mary were really very ill.

Mrs. Bury laughed, and confided to her a secret, which made her at once glad, alarmed, and important.

‘Oh, and is no one to know?’ said little Constance, with rosy cheeks.

‘Not till leave is given,’ said Mrs. Bury. ‘You see there is still so much risk of things going wrong, that they both wish nothing to be said at present. I thought they had spoken to you.’

‘Oh no. But—but—’ and Constance could not go on, as her eyes filled with tears.

‘Is there special cause for anxiety, you mean, my dear? Hardly for her, though it was unlucky that she was as unknowing as you, and I don’t see how she is to be taken over these roads into a more civilised place. But I shall stay on and see them through with it, and I daresay we shall do very well. I am used enough to looking after my own daughters, and nobody particularly wants me at home.’

‘That’s what Aunt Mary meant by saying you were so very good!’

‘Well, it would be sheer inhumanity to leave them to themselves, and the mercies of Ratzes, and there seems to be no one else that could come.’

‘I’m glad I know!’ said Constance, with a long breath. ‘Only what shall I do if any one asks me about her?’

‘Say she had a nasty fall, which makes it undesirable to move her just yet. It is the simple truth, and what you would have naturally said but for this little communication of mine.’

‘I suppose,’ said Constance, in a tone Mrs. Bury did not understand, ‘it will be all known before my Christmas holidays?’

‘Oh yes, my dear, long before that. I’ll write to you when I have anything to tell.’

For which Constance thanked her heartily, and thenceforth felt a great deal older for the confidence, which delighted as well as made her anxious, for she was too fond of her uncle and aunt, as well as too young and simple, for it to have occurred to her how the matter might affect her brother.

After seeing much more on her road than she had done before, and won golden opinions from her escort for intelligence and obligingness, she was safely deposited in the train for Colbeam, without having gone home.

She had made up her mind to pass Sunday at her boarding-house, and was greatly surprised when Lady Adela called on Saturday to take her to Northmoor for the Sunday.

‘Now tell me about your uncle and aunt,’ the good lady began, when Constance was seated beside her. ‘Yes, I have heard from Mrs. Bury, but I want to know whether the place is tolerably comfortable.’

‘Mrs. Bury has made it much better,’ said Constance. ‘And it is so beautiful, no one would care for comfort who was quite well.’

‘And is your uncle well? Has he got over his headaches?’ she asked solicitously.

In fact, the absence of Lord and Lady Northmoor had done more than their presence to make Lady Adela feel their value. She was astonished to find how much she missed the power of referring to him and leaning on his support in all questions, small or great, that cropped up; and she had begun to feel that the stick might be a staff; besides which, having imbibed more than an inkling of the cause of detention, she was anxious to gather what she could of the circumstances.

She was agreeably surprised in Constance, to whom the journey had been a time of development from the mere school girl, and who could talk pleasantly, showing plenty of intelligence and observation in a modest ladylike way. Moreover, she had a game in the garden which little Amice enjoyed extremely, and she and her little Sunday class were delighted to see one another again. It resulted in her Sundays being spent at Northmoor as regularly as before, and in Amice, a companionless child, thinking Saturday brought the white afternoon of the week.