"I must make him comprehend that Mabel Aylett at twenty, wilful,

romantic, and undisciplined, was a different being from the woman

who has called him 'husband,' without a blush, for fourteen years!"

It was these recollections that softened her kindly tones to

tenderness; made the pressure of her hand upon his temples a caress,

rather than a manual appliance for deadening pain; while she

combated his intention of appearing at the breakfast-table.

"Lie down upon the sofa!" she entreated. "Let me bring up a cup of

strong coffee for you; then darken the room, and chafe your head

until you fall asleep, since you turn a deaf ear to all proposals of

mustard foot-baths and Dr. Van Orden's panacea pills."

"No!" stubbornly. "Aylett and Clara would think it strange. They do

not understand how a slight irregularity of diet or habit can

produce such a result. They would attribute it to other causes. I

may feel better when I have taken something nourishing."

The dreaded critics received the tidings of his indisposition

without cavil at its imputed origin, treated the whole subject with

comparative indifference, which would have mortified him a week ago,

but seemed now to assuage his unrest. The breakfast hour was a quiet

one. Herbert could not attempt the form of eating, despite his

expressed hope of the curative effects of nourishment, and sipped

his black coffee at tedious intervals of pain, looking more ill

after each. Mabel was silent, and regardful of his suffering, while

Mrs. Aylett toyed with the tea-cup, broke her biscuit into small

heaps of crumbs upon her plate, and under her visor of ennui and

indolent musing, kept her eye upon her vis-a-vis, whose face was

opaque ice; and his intonations, when he deigned to speak, meant

nothing save that he was controller of his own meditations, and

would not be meddled with.

"You are not well enough to ride over to the Courthouse with me,

Dorrance?" he said, interrogatively, his meal despatched. "It is

court-day, you know?"

"What do you say, Mabel?" was Herbert's clumsy reference to his

nurse. "Don't you think I might venture?"

"I would not, if I were in your place," she replied, cautiously

dissuasive. "The day is raw, and there will be rain before evening.

Dampness always aggravates neuralgia."

"It is neuralgia, then, is it?" queried Winston, shortly, drawing on

his boots.

His sister looked up surprised.

"What else should it be?"

"Nothing--unless the symptoms indicate softening of the brain!" he

rejoined, with his slight, dissonant laugh. "In either case, your

decision is wise. He is better off in your custody than he would be

abroad. I hope I shall find you convalescent when I return. Good

morning!"




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