"Dearest Rob! My husband!" Then she loosed the hand she held, laid
hers upon the head of the couch, and bending down she softly pressed her
lips against the patient's brow, while a feeling of bitter jealousy sent
the blood surging through Chester's brain, till the eyes were turned
again to his, and, with a look that sent every forming manly intention
flying to the winds, she said softly--

"Why did you think that? Doctor, for a poor, pleading woman's sake,
give up all thought of going. I could not bear it. There--look--his
face is growing convulsed," she whispered in a quick, agitated tone,
"And you talk of going! He is dying. Robert! Robert! Oh, doctor, do
you not see?"

CHAPTER FIVE.

AUNT GRACE SOWS THE SEED OF DISCONTENT.

Laura Chester possessed what her aunt termed a bad habit.

"You are so restless, my dear," said that lady. "Why can't you stay in
your bed of a morning, and then come down at a Christian-like hour?"

"Nine o'clock, aunt dear," said the girl, smiling.

"Well, say a quarter to, my dear, because that gives ample time to ring
for the urn and make the tea, though nine is really a very nice hour.
It is not right for a young lady to be racing downstairs before seven
o'clock and dusting; and I do not really like for you to be going out
for walks at such early hours."

"London is at its best before breakfast, aunt; everything looks so fresh
and bright."

"What nonsense, my dear! Nothing of the kind. The steps are not
cleaned, and there is nobody about but sweeps and dustmen, and milk
carts."

"Oh yes, aunt dear," cried Laura, merrily. "London is very busy then,
and I wish I could get you to come. Covent Garden is lovely quite early
with the flowers and fruit."

"My dear Laura, to hear you talk anyone would think your poor dear papa
had been a greengrocer. Pray, do, my dear, try and give up the bad
habit. I really don't know what Isabel must think."

But the habit only grew stronger, and on the morning after her brother's
sudden call, Laura slipped out while cook was cleaning the steps and
went off to Covent Garden to return with a bunch of roses and a basket
of strawberries which had been picked that morning nine miles down the
western road.

The breakfast was ready, and she was giving the last touches to her
arrangement of flowers and fruit upon the table when Isabel joined her,
looking as fresh as the flowers in the little shallow bowl.

"Oh, Laury, I am so ashamed a