It was a crumb be-sprinkled Bishop who, half an hour later, hurried up the stairs of the Palace.

"What an age you have been," snapped Dr. Brown, from the landing.

"How is she?"

"The same, but weaker. Have you got Regie?"

"Yes, but it took time."

"Is he frightened?"

"Not a bit."

"Then bring him up."

The doctor went back into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.

A small shrunken figure with bandaged head and hands was sitting in an arm-chair. The eyes of the rigid, discolored face were fixed.

Dr. Brown took the bandage off Hester's head, and smoothed her hair.

"He is coming up-stairs now," he said, shaking her gently by the shoulders. "Regie is coming up-stairs now to see you. Regie is quite well, and he is coming in now to see you."

"Regie is dead, you old gray wolf," said Hester, in a monotonous voice. "I killed him in the back-yard. The place is quite black, and it smokes."

"Look at the door," repeated Dr. Brown, over and over again. "He is coming in at the door now."

Hester trembled, and looked at the door. The doctor noticed, with a frown, that she could hardly move her eyes.

Regie stood in the doorway, holding the Bishop's hand. The cold snow light fell upon the gallant little figure and white face.

The doctor moved between Hester and the window. His shadow was upon her.

The hearts of the two men beat like hammers.

A change came over Hester's face.

"My little Reg," she said, holding out her bandaged hands.

Regie ran to her, and put his arms round her neck. They clasped each other tightly. The doctor winced to watch her hands.

"It's all right, Auntie Hester," said Regie. "I love you just the same, and you must not cry any more."

For Hester's tears were falling at last, quenching the wild fire in her eyes.

"My little treasure, my little mouse," she said, over and over again, kissing his face and hands and little brown overcoat.

Then all in a moment her face altered. Her agonized eyes turned to the doctor.

In an instant Dr. Brown's hand was over Regie's eyes, and he hurried him out of the room.

"Take him out of hearing," he whispered to the Bishop, and darted back.

Hester was tearing the bandages off her hands.

"I don't know what has happened," she wailed, "but my hands hurt me so that I can't bear it."

"Thank God!" said the old doctor, blowing his nose.

Chapter XLIII

*

The Devil has no stancher ally than want of perception.—PHILIP H. WICKSTEED.

It takes two to speak truth—one to speak and another to hear.—THOREAU.

Mrs. Gresley had passed an uncomfortable day. In the afternoon all the Pratts had called, and Mr. Gresley, who departed early in the afternoon for Southminster, had left his wife no directions as to how to act in this unforseen occurrence, or how to parry the questions with which she was overwhelmed.