* *

By the middle of the morning she was downstairs again, vigorous and
fresh as ever. Mrs. Boyce's maid was for the moment in charge of the
patient, who was doing well. Mrs. Boyce was writing some household notes
in the drawing-room. Marcella went in search of her.

The bare room, just as it ever was--with its faded antique charm--looked
bright and tempting in the sun. But the cheerfulness of it did but
sharpen the impression of that thin form writing in the window. Mrs.
Boyce looked years older. The figure had shrunk and flattened into that
of an old woman; the hair, which two years before had been still young
and abundant, was now easily concealed under the close white cap she had
adopted very soon after her daughter had left Mellor. The dress was
still exquisitely neat; but plainer and coarser. Only the beautiful
hands and the delicate stateliness of carriage remained--sole relics of
a loveliness which had cost its owner few pangs to part with.

Marcella hovered near her--a little behind her--looking at her from time
to time with a yearning compunction--which Mrs. Boyce seemed to be aware
of, and to avoid.

"Mamma, can't I do those letters for you? I am quite fresh."

"No, thank you. They are just done."

When they were all finished and stamped, Mrs. Boyce made some careful
entries in a very methodical account-book, and then got up, locking the
drawers of her little writing-table behind her.

"We can keep the London nurse another week I think," she said.

"There is no need," said Marcella, quickly. "Emma and I could divide the
nights now and spare you altogether. You see I can sleep at any time."

"Your father seems to prefer Nurse Wenlock," said Mrs. Boyce.

Marcella took the little blow in silence. No doubt it was her due.
During the past two years she had spent two separate months at Mellor;
she had gone away in opposition to her father's wish; and had found
herself on her return more of a stranger to her parents than ever. Mr.
Boyce's illness, involving a steady extension of paralytic weakness,
with occasional acute fits of pain and danger, had made steady though
very gradual progress all the time. But it was not till some days after
her return home that Marcella had realised a tenth part of what her
mother had undergone since the disastrous spring of the murder.

She passed now from the subject of the nurse with a half-timid remark
about "expense."

"Oh! the expense doesn't matter!" said