The Doctor came out of his study much distressed, and in Anne's
absence the household was almost helpless in giving the succours in
which she had always been the foremost. Peregrine lingered about in
remorse and despair, offering to fetch her or to go for the doctor,
and finally took the latter course, thereto impelled by the angry
words of the old cook, an enemy of his in former days.

"No better? no, sir, nor 'tis not your fault if ever she be. You've
been and frought her nigh to death with your terrifying ways."

Peregrine was Hampshire man enough to know that to terrify only
meant to tease, but he was in no mood to justify himself to old
Patience, so he galloped off to Portsmouth, and only returned with
the doctor to hear that Madam Woodford was in bed, and her daughter
with her. She was somewhat better, but still very ill, and it was
plain that this was no moment for pressing his suit even had it not
been time for him to return home. Going to fetch the doctor might
be accepted as a valid reason for missing the evening exhortation
and prayer, but there were mistrustful looks that galled him.

Anne's return was more beneficial to Mrs. Woodford than the doctor's
visit, and the girl was still too ignorant of all that her mother's
attacks of spasms and subsequent weakness implied to be as much
alarmed as to depress her hopes. Yet Mrs. Woodford, lying awake in
the night, detected that her daughter was restless and unhappy, and
asked what ailed her, and how the visit had gone off.

"You do not wish me to speak of such things, madam," was the answer.

"Tell me all that is in your heart, my child."

It all came out with the vehemence of a reserved nature when the
flood is loosed. 'Young Madam' had been more than usually peevish
and exacting, jealous perhaps at Lucy's being the heroine of the
day, and fretful over a cold which confined her to the house, how
she worried and harassed all around her with her whims, megrims and
complaints could only too well be imagined, and how the entire
pleasure of the day was destroyed. Lucy was never allowed a
minute's conversation with her friend without being interrupted by a
whine and complaints of unkindness and neglect.

Lady Archfield's ill-usage, as the young wife was pleased to call
every kind of restriction, was the favourite theme next to the
daughter-in law's own finery, her ailments, and her notions of the
treatment befitting her.

And young Mr. Archfield himself