“Very faint, I thought,” said Henrietta, “there seemed to be a great deal of bleeding, but Aunt Geoffrey would not let me come near.”

“She knows exactly what to do,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford.  “How well it was that she should be here.”

Henrietta began to be so fretted at her mother’s complete confidence in her aunt, that without thinking of the consequences she tried to argue it away.  “Aunt Geoffrey is so quick—­she does things without half the consideration other people do.  And she likes to settle everything.”

But happily the confiding friendship of a lifetime was too strong to be even harassed for a moment by the petulant suspicions of an angry girl.

“My dear, if you were not vexed and anxious, I should tell you that you were speaking very improperly of your aunt.  I am perfectly satisfied that she is doing what is right by dear Fred, as well as by me; and if I am satisfied, no one else has any right to object.”

There was nothing left for Henrietta in her present state of spirits but to have a hearty cry, one of the best possible ways she could find of distressing her mother, who all the time was suffering infinitely more than she could imagine from her fears, her efforts to silence them, and the restraint which she was exercising upon herself, longing as she did to fly to her son’s room, to see with her own eyes, and only detained by the fear that her sudden appearance there might agitate him.  The tears, whatever might be their effect upon her, did Henrietta good, and restored her to something more like her proper senses.  She grew rather alarmed, too, when she saw her mamma’s pale looks, as she leant back almost exhausted with anxiety and repressed agitation.

Mrs. Langford came up to bring them some tea, and she, having little idea of the real state of things, took so encouraging a view as to cheer them both, and her visit did much service at least to Henrietta.  Then they heard sounds announcing Philip Carey’s arrival, and presently after in came Bennet with a message from Mr. Frederick that he was better, and that his mother was not to be frightened.  At last came Aunt Geoffrey, saying, “Well, Mary, he is better.  I have been very sorry to leave you so long, and I believe Henrietta,” looking at her with a smile, “thinks I have used you very ill.”

“I believe she did,” said her mother, “but I was sure you would do right; you say he is better?  Let me hear.”

“Much better; only—.  But Mary, you look quite worn out, you should go to bed.”

“Let me hear about him first.”