Mrs. Boyce, as she stood absently
before the lately kindled fire, warming her chilled fingers at the
blaze.

"Papa is more at ease in those ways?" Marcella ventured. And kneeling
down beside her mother she gently chafed one of the cold hands.

"There seems to be enough for what is wanted," said Mrs. Boyce, bearing
the charing with patience. "Your father, I believe, has made great
progress this year in freeing the estate. Thank you, my dear. I am not
cold now."

And she gently withdrew her hand.

Marcella, indeed, had already noticed that there were now no weeds on
the garden-paths, that instead of one gardener there were three, that
the old library had been decently patched and restored, that there was
another servant, that William, grown into a very--tolerable footman,
wore a reputable coat, and that a plain but adequate carriage and horse
had met her at the station. Her pity even understood that part of her
father's bitter resentment of his ever-advancing disablement came from
his feeling that here at last--just as death was in sight--he, that
squalid failure, Dick Boyce, was making a success of something.

Presently, as she knelt before the fire, a question escaped her, which,
when it was spoken, she half regretted.

"Has papa been able to do anything for the cottages yet?"

"I don't think so," said Mrs. Boyce, calmly. After a minute's pause she
added, "That will be for your reign, my dear."

Marcella looked up with a sharp thrill of pain.

"Papa is better, mamma, and--and I don't know what you mean. I shall
never reign here without you."

Mrs. Boyce began to fidget with the rings on her thin left hand.

"When Mellor ceases to be your father's it will be yours," she said, not
without a certain sharp decision; "that was settled long ago. I must be
free--and if you are to do anything with this place, you must give your
youth and strength to it. And your father is not better--except for the
moment. Dr. Clarke exactly foretold the course of his illness to me two
years ago, on my urgent request. He may live four months--six, if we can
get him to the South. More is impossible."

There was something ghastly in her dry composure. Marcella caught her
hand again and leant her trembling young cheek against it.

"I could not live here without you, mamma!"

Mrs. Boyce could not for once repress the inner fever which in general
her will controlled so well.

"I hardly think it would matter to you so much, my dear.