“I hardly know.  She is not out of danger; but Mr. Hillary has hopes of her.  One of the other servants has taken it, and is worse than Matilda.  Mr. Hillary has been with her three times to-day, and is coming again.  She was ill when I last wrote to you, Val; but we did not know it.”

“Which of them is it?” he asked.

“The dairymaid; a stout girl, who has never had a day’s illness before.  I don’t suppose you know her.  There was some trouble with her.  She would not take any medicine; would not do anything she ought to have done, and the consequence is that the fever has got dangerously ahead.  I am sure she is very ill.”

“I hope it will not spread beyond the Rectory.”

“Oh, Val, that is our one great hope,” she said, turning her earnest face to him in the moonlight.  “We are taking all possible precautions.  None of us are going beyond the grounds, except papa, and we do not receive any one here.  I don’t know what papa will say to your coming.”

He smiled.  “But you can’t keep all the world away!”

“We do—­very nearly.  Mr. Hillary comes, and Dr. Beamish from Garchester, and one or two people have been here on business.  If any one calls at the gate, they are not asked in; and I don’t suppose they would come in if asked.  Jabez Gum’s the most obstinate.  He comes in just as usual.”

“Lady Kirton is in an awful fright,” said Val, in an amused tone.

“Oh, I have heard of it,” cried Anne, clasping her hands in laughter.  “She is burning tar outside the house; and she spoke to Mr. Hillary this morning through the window muffled up in a cloak and respirator.  What a strange old thing she is!”

Val shrugged his shoulders.  “I don’t think she means badly au fond; and she has no home, poor creature.”

“Is that why she remains at Hartledon?”

“I suppose so.  Reigning at Hartledon must be something like a glimpse of Paradise to her.  She won’t quit it in a hurry.”

“I wonder you like to have her there.”

“I know I shall never have courage to tell her to go,” was the candid and characteristic answer.  “I was afraid of her as a boy, and I’m not sure but I’m afraid of her still.”

“I don’t like her—­I don’t like either of them,” said Anne in a low tone.

“Don’t you like Maude?”

“No.  I am sure she is not true.  To my mind there is something very false about them both.”

“I think you are wrong, Anne; certainly as regards Maude.”

Miss Ashton did not press her opinion:  they were his relatives.  “But I should have pitied poor Edward had he lived and married her,” she said, following out her thoughts.

“I was mistaken when I thought Maude cared for Edward,” observed Lord Hartledon.  “I’m sure I did think it.  I used to tell Edward so; but a day or two after he died I found I was wrong.  The dowager had been urging Maude to like him, and she could not, and it made her miserable.”