s head on her lap, bathed his forehead and
chafed his hands, while Lord Ormersfield stood watching him with looks
of misery, or paced about, anxiously looking for the servants.

They came at last, all too soon for poor Louis, who suffered terribly
in the transport, and gave few tokens of consciousness, except a cry
now and then extorted by a rougher movement.

None of the household, scarcely even Mrs. Frost, seemed at first to be
able to believe that Lord Fitzjocelyn could really have hurt himself
seriously. 'Again!' was the first word of every one, for his many
slight accidents were treated like crying 'Wolf;' but Frampton himself
looked perfectly pale and shocked when he perceived how the matter
really stood; and neither he nor Lord Ormersfield was half so helpful
as Mrs. Frost. The shock only called out her energy in behalf of her
darling, and, tender as her nature was, she shrank from nothing that
could soothe and alleviate his suffering; and it did infinitely comfort
him, as he held her hand and looked with affection into her face, even
in the extremity of pain.

Fain would others have been the same support; but his father, though
not leaving him, was completely unnerved, and unable to do anything;
and Mrs. Ponsonby was suffering under one of the attacks that were
brought on by any sudden agitation. Mary, though giddy and throbbing
in every pulse, was forced to put a resolute check on herself--brace
her limbs, steady her voice, and keep her face composed, while every
faculty was absorbed in listening for sounds from her cousin's room,
and her heart was quivering with an anguish of prayer and suspense.
Could she but hide her burning cheeks for one moment, let out one of
the sobs that seemed to be rending her breast, throw herself on her
knees and burst into tears, what an infinite relief it would be! But
Mary had learnt to spend her life in having no self.

CHAPTER VI.

FAREWELLS.

What yet is there that I should do,
Lingering in this darksome vale?
Proud and mighty, fair to view,
Are our schemes, and yet they fail,
Like the sand before the wind,
That no power of man can bind.
ARNDT, Lyra Germanica.

Dynevor Terrace was said to have dark, damp kitchens, but by none who
had ever been in No. 5, when the little compact fire was compressed to
one glowing red crater of cinders, their smile laughing ruddily back
from the bright array on the dresser, the drugge