“How is he?” That of course was the first question when Mrs. Hopkins met her in the hall.  Mrs. Hopkins only shook her head and said that perhaps he had taken his food that day a little better than on the last.  Then there was a whisper, to which Mrs. Hopkins whispered back her answer.  Yes,—­Lady Ushant was in the house,—­was at this moment in the sick man’s room.  Mr. Reginald was not staying there,—­had never stayed there,—­but came every day.  He had only just left.  “And is he to come still?” asked Mrs. Morton with wrath in her eyes.  Mrs. Hopkins did not know but was disposed to think that Mr. Reginald would come every day.  Then Mrs. Morton went up to her own room,—­and while she prepared herself for her visit to the sick room Lady Ushant retired.  She had a cup of tea, refusing all other refreshment, and then, walking erect as though she had been forty instead of seventy-five, she entered her grandson’s chamber and took her old place at his bedside.

Nothing was then said about Arabella, nor, indeed, at any future time was her name mentioned between them;—­nor was anything then said about the future fate of the estate.  She did not dare to bring up the subject at once, though, on the journey down from London, she had determined that she would do so.  But she was awed by his appearance and by the increased appanages of his sick-bed.  He spoke, indeed, of the property, and expressed his anxiety that Chowton Farm should be bought, if it came into market.  He thought that the old acres should be redeemed, if the opportunity arose,—­ and if the money could be found.  “Chowton Farm!” exclaimed the old woman, who remembered well the agony which had attended the alienation of that portion of the Morton lands.

“It may be that it will be sold.”

“Lawrence Twentyman sell Chowton Farm!  I thought he was well off.”  Little as she had been at Bragton she knew all about Chowton Farm,—­except that its owner was so wounded by vain love as to be like a hurt deer.  Her grandson did not tell her all the story, but explained to her that Lawrence Twentyman, though not poor, had other plans of life and thought of leaving the neighbourhood.  She, of course, had the money; and as she believed that land was the one proper possession for an English gentleman of ancient family, she doubtless would have been willing to buy it had she approved of the hands into which it would fall.  It seemed to him that it was her duty to do as much for the estate with which all her fortune had been concerned.  “Yes,” she said; “it should be bought,—­if other things suited.  We will talk of it to-morrow, John.”  Then he spoke of his mission to Patagonia and of his regret that it should be abandoned.  Even were he ever to be well again his strength would return to him too late for this purpose.  He had already made known to the Foreign Office his inability to undertake that service.  But she could perceive that he had not in truth abandoned his hopes of living, for he spoke much of his ambition as to the public service.  The more he thought of it, he said, the more certain he became that it would suit him better to go on with his profession than to live the life of a country squire in England.  And yet she could see the change which had taken place since she was last there and was aware that he was fading away from day to day.