ten, with a special letter she
had ready for "dear old Mrs. Picture." "I know you," said she. "How's
your Bull? I hope he won't kill Farmer Jones or anyone while you're not
there to whistle to him." To which the youth answered:--"Who-ap not!
Sarve they roi-ut, if they dwoan't let un bid in a's stall. A penned un
in afower a coomed away." Gwen thought to herself that life at Jones's
farm must be painfully volcanic, and despatched the Bull's guardian
genius on his cob with the largest sum of money in his pocket that he
had ever possessed in his life, after learning his name, which was
Onesimus.

When Onesimus reappeared with a second despatch on the afternoon of the
next day, Wednesday, Gwen opened it with a beating heart in a hurry for
its contents. She did as one does with letters containing news, reading
persistently through to the end and taking no notice at all of Irene's
interrogatory "Well?" which of course was uttered long before the
quickest reader could master the shortest letter's contents. When the
end came, she said with evident relief:--"Oh yes, _that's_ all _right_!
Now if we drive over to-morrow, she will probably be up."

"Is that what the letter says?" Adrian spoke, and Gwen, saying "He won't
believe my report, you see! You read it!"--threw the letter over to
Irene, who read it aloud to her brother, while Gwen looked at the other
letter, from Widow Thrale.

What Irene read did not seem so very conclusive. Mrs. Prichard had had a
better night, having slept six hours without a break. But the great
weakness continued. If she could take a very little stimulant it would
be an assistance, as it might enable her to eat more. But she had an
unconquerable aversion to wine and spirits in any form, and Dr. Nash was
very reluctant to force her against her will.

So said Adrian:--"What she wants is real turtle soup and champagne. _I_
know." Whereupon his father, who was behind the _Times_--meaning, not
the Age, but the "Jupiter" of our boyhood, looked over its title, and
said:--"Champagne--champagne? There's plenty in the bin--end of the
cellar--Tweedie knows. You'll find my keys on the desk there"--and went
back to an absorbing leader, denouncing the defective Commissariat in
the Crimea. A moment later, he remembered a thing he had forgotten--his
son's blindness. "Stop a minute," he said. "I have to go, myself, later,
and I may as well go now." And presently was heard discussing
cellar-economics, afar, with Twee