nothing more to be desired."
Nevertheless, the next morning, Miss Ruth ran over with a bowl of wine
jelly from Miss Deborah, and brought back word that Mrs. Forsythe was
"still breathing;" and that the gravest apprehensions were felt for Mr.
Denner.

Miss Deborah was waiting in the parlor to hear the news; so important an
occasion seemed to demand the dignity of the parlor, and in a high-backed
armchair, with her feet on a cricket and a fresh handkerchief in her
hand, she listened to Miss Ruth's agitated and tearful story.

"I will make some whips for William Denner," she said promptly, as Miss
Ruth finished, "and we will take them to him this afternoon."

"Well, but, sister," said Miss Ruth, hesitating, "do you think--we'd
better? Ought not we to let Giff take them?"

"Why?" asked Miss Deborah. "He is able to see us, isn't he?"

"It is not quite that," answered the younger sister nervously, taking
off her bonnet, and beginning to roll the strings tight and smooth
between her fingers, "but--he is in--his chamber, sister. Would it be
quite--proper?"

"I think," said Miss Deborah, holding her head very straight, "we are old
enough to"--

"You may be," returned Miss Ruth firmly, "but I am not."

Miss Deborah was silent for a moment; then she said, "Well, perhaps you
are right, dear Ruth; though he is certainly very ill, and didn't you say
he was in the library?"

"Yes," said Miss Ruth, "he is very ill, but the fact of his couch being
in the library does not alter it. If anything sad should be going to
happen,--it would be different, then."

"Of course," assented Miss Deborah.

"You see," Miss Ruth explained, "if we saw him, and then he got well, it
would be very awkward."

"True," said Miss Deborah. "And certainly single women cannot be too
delicate in such matters. We will send the whips by Giff. Poor, poor
William Denner! Let me see,--were you to be his partner on Saturday? Oh,
no, I recollect: it was I,--it was my turn."

"I think not," Miss Ruth replied gently; "you played last week. I should
have played with him this time."

"Not at all," said Miss Deborah firmly, "he was mine."

CHAPTER XX.

The suspense was very hard for Lois Howe to bear.

When Mrs. Dale drove her from the sick-room for air and exercise, she
wandered restlessly about the rectory, or went to Mr. Denner's door
to beg a word of encouragement from Mary, or take a momentary comfort
from the messages he sent her that he was