ighbouring room. She had brought with her some of the coloured bricks,
and "nests" of Japanese boxes which generally amused him. He was soon
sitting on the floor, aimlessly shuffling the bricks, and apparently
happy. As his father was returning to the sickroom a note was put into
his hand by the Rector. It contained these few words--"Don't make final
arrangements with the Ramsays till you have seen me. Think I could
propose something you would like better. Shall be here all the evening.
Yours affectionately--Cynthia."

He had just thrust it into his pocket, when the Rector drew him aside at
the head of the stairs, while the two doctors were with the patient.

"I don't want to interfere with any of your arrangements," whispered the
Rector, "but I think perhaps I ought to tell you that Mrs. Ramsay is no
great housewife. She is a queer little flighty thing. She spends her time
in trying to write plays and bothering managers. There's no harm in her,
and he's very fond of her. But it is an untidy, dirty little house! And
nothing ever happens at the right time. My sister said I must warn you.
She's had it on her mind--as she's had a good deal of experience of Mrs.
Ramsay. And I believe Lady Cynthia has another plan."

Buntingford thanked him, remembering opportunely that when he had
proposed to Ramsay to take the boy into his house, the doctor had
accepted with a certain hesitation, which had puzzled him. "I will go
over and see my cousin when I can be spared."

But a sudden call from the sickroom startled them both. Buntingford
hurried forward.

When Buntingford entered he found the patient lying in a deep
old-fashioned chair propped up by pillows. She had been supplied with the
simplest of night-gear by Miss Alcott, and was wearing besides a blue
cotton overall or wrapper in which the Rector's sister was often
accustomed to do her morning's work. There was a marked incongruity
between the commonness of the dress, and a certain cosmopolitan stamp, a
touch of the grand air, which was evident in its wearer. The face, even
in its mortal pallor and distress, was remarkable both for its intellect
and its force. Buntingford stood a few paces from her, his sad eyes
meeting hers. She motioned to him.

"Send them all away."

The doctors went, with certain instructions to Buntingford, one of them
remaining in the room below. Buntingford came to sit close by her.

"They say I shall kill myself if I talk," she said in her gaspin