rth at last. Silently they agreed with her to treat her increasing
weakness with delicate stoicism, to speak of it--if at all--merely as a
passing indisposition, so allowing no dreary, lamentable element to
obtrude itself. Sad Mrs. St. Quentin might be, bitterly sad at heart,
perplexed by the rather incomprehensible dealings of God with man. Yet,
to the end, she would remain charming, gently gay even, both out of
consideration for others and a fine self-respect, since she held it the
mark of a cowardly and ignoble nature to let anything squalid appear in
her attitude towards grief, old age, or death.

But Brockhurst she would never see again. The way was too great for
her. And so it came about that when Lady Calmady's child was born,
towards the end of the following March, no more staid and responsible
woman creature of her family was at hand to support her than that
lively, young lady, her brother, William Ormiston's wife.

Meanwhile, the parish of Sandyfield rejoiced. Thomas Caryll, the
rector, had caused the church bells to be rung immediately on receipt
of the good news; while he selected, as text for his Sunday morning
sermon, those words, usually reserved to another and somewhat greater
advent--"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given." Good Mr.
Caryll was innocent of the remotest intention of profanity. But his
outlook was circumscribed, his desire to please abnormally large, and
his sense of relative values slight. While that Lady Calmady should
give birth to a son and heir was, after all, a matter of no small
moment--locally considered at all events.

Brockhurst House rejoiced also, yet it did so not without a measure of
trembling. For there had been twenty-four hours of acute anxiety
regarding Katherine Calmady. And even now, on the evening of the second
day, although Dr. Knott declared himself satisfied both as to her
condition and that of the baby, an air of mystery surrounded the large
state-bedroom,--where she lay, white and languid, slowly feeling her
way back to the ordinary conditions of existence,--and the nursery next
door. Mrs. Denny, who had taken possession by right divine of long and
devoted service, not only did not encourage, but positively repulsed
visitors. Her ladyship must not be disturbed. She, the nurse, the baby,
in turn, were sleeping. According to Denny the god of sleep reigned
supreme in those stately, white-paneled chambers, looking away, across
the valley and the long l