ways _did_ ask
senseless questions. The Persian kitten, now grown to be a cat less
Persian than had been expected, came into the room, and the nurse took
it up and put it out. "He always comes; he's a perfect nuisance," she
observed. "They get so used to places, cats, don't they?"

Brigit nodded. "I'll go and change," she said. "I'll be back in a few
minutes."

"Better take something to eat, my lady. The danger of infection is
great, you know, and the tireder one is----"

"I know."

When she came back, Brigit found her mother installed in the room while
nurse had her tea. Lady Kingsmead was a good nurse, greatly to her
daughter's surprise, and all her affectations seemed to have been left
in her dressing-room with her false hair.

The three women took turns sitting up with the invalid, but he
recognised none of them. It was a very long night, and only the greatest
determination kept Brigit awake during her watches, for she was
extremely tired after her journey.

But at last day came, and with it a short return of consciousness.
"Where's Bicky?"

"Here I am, Tommy darling," she answered, taking his hand. "Are you
better, love?"

"Yes, I think so. Where's my violin?"

She fetched it, and he went to sleep, his wasted hand lying across the
strings.

When he next spoke it was to talk utter nonsense about a flying-machine,
an account of which he had read in a newspaper.

CHAPTER TEN

Poor little Tommy's passion for knowing things showed up very clearly
the next few days, his over-active brain working hard propounding to
itself question on subjects that Brigit had never heard him even
mention. And one of the most pathetic subjects was that of her relations
with her mother. "If Brigit would only come back and live here again,"
he said over and over again, "like other fellows' sisters. Things are so
much pleasanter when she is here."

"I'm here, Tommy darling," she told him a hundred times, but he only
shook his head and frowned gently. "You are very nice, and I like your
hands, because they are cool and dry, but you are not Bicky. Bicky is
beautiful."

His mother, on the contrary, the child always recognised, and his manner
to her was almost protecting.

"Don't cry, mother," he would say. "I'm not so bad, really I'm not. You
had better go and lie down, or you will not look pretty to-night."

His idea of evenings was, of course, of a time when mothers must look
their best at any cost, and when no m