Frances Freeland rose, pulled something hard, and a cupboard appeared.  She opened it, and took out a travelling-bag.

“I must go back with you at once,” she said.

“I don’t think it’s in the least necessary, and you’ll only knock yourself up.”

“Oh, nonsense, darling!  I must.”

Knowing that further dissuasion would harden her determination, Felix said:  “I’m going in the car.”

“That doesn’t matter.  I shall be ready in ten minutes.  Oh! and do you know this?  It’s splendid for taking lines out under the eyes!” She was holding out a little round box with the lid off.  “Just wet your finger with it, and dab it gently on.”

Touched by this evidence of her deep desire that he should put as good a face on it as herself, Felix dabbed himself under the eyes.

“That’s right.  Now, wait for me, dear; I shan’t be a minute.  I’ve only to get my things.  They’ll all go splendidly in this little bag.”

In a quarter of an hour they had started.  During that journey Frances Freeland betrayed no sign of tremor.  She was going into action, and, therefore, had no patience with her nerves.

“Are you proposing to stay, Mother?” Felix hazarded; “because I don’t think there’s a room for you.”

“Oh! that’s nothing, darling.  I sleep beautifully in a chair.  It suits me better than lying down.”  Felix cast up his eyes, and made no answer.

On arriving, they found that the doctor had been there, expressed his satisfaction, and enjoined perfect quiet.  Tod was on the point of starting back to Transham, where Sheila and the two laborers would be brought up before the magistrates.  Felix and Kirsteen took hurried counsel.  Now that Mother, whose nursing was beyond reproach, had come, it would be better if they went with Tod.  All three started forthwith in the car.

Left alone, Frances Freeland took her bag—­a noticeably old one, without any patent clasp whatever, so that she could open it—­went noiselessly upstairs, tapped on Derek’s door, and went in.  A faint but cheerful voice remarked:  “Halloo, Granny!”

Frances Freeland went up to the bed, smiled down on him ineffably, laid a finger on his lips, and said, in the stillest voice:  “You mustn’t talk, darling!” Then she sat down in the window with her bag beside her.  Half a tear had run down her nose, and she had no intention that it should be seen.  She therefore opened her bag, and, having taken out a little bottle, beckoned Nedda.

“Now, darling,” she whispered, “you must just take one of these.  It’s nothing new; they’re what my mother used to give me at your age.  And for one hour you must go out and get some fresh air, and then you can come back.”

“Must I, Granny?”

“Yes; you must keep up your strength.  Kiss me.”

Nedda kissed a cheek that seemed extraordinarily smooth and soft, received a kiss in the middle of her own, and, having stayed a second by the bed, looking down with all her might, went out.