Grandmamma and Aunt Roger united in ordering her to bed, but she could not bear to go without seeing her papa, nor would she accept Mrs. Langford’s offer of calling him; and at last a compromise was made that she should go up to bed on condition that her papa should come and visit her when he came out of Fred’s room.  Her grandmamma came up with her, helped her to undress, gave her the unwonted indulgence of a fire, and summoned Judith to prepare things as quickly and quietly as possible for Henrietta, who was to sleep with her that night.  It was with much difficulty that she could avoid making a promise to go to bed immediately, and not to get up to breakfast.  At last, with a very affectionate kiss, grandmamma left her to brush her hair, an operation which she resolved to lengthen out until her papa’s visit.

It was long before he came, but at last his step was heard along the passage, his knock was at her door.  She flew to it, and stood before him, her large black eyes looking larger, brighter, blacker than usual from the contrast with the pale or rather sallow face, and the white nightcap and dressing-gown.

“How is Fred?” asked she as well as her parched tongue would allow her to speak.

“Much the same, only talking a little more.  But why are you up still?  Your grandmamma said—­”

“Never mind, papa,” interrupted she, “only tell me this—­is Fred in danger?”

“You have heard all we can tell, my dear—­”

Beatrice interrupted him by an impatient, despairing look, and clasped her hands:  “I know—­I know; but what do you think?”

“My own impression is,” said her father, in a calm, kind, yet almost reproving tone, as if to warn her to repress her agitation, “that there is no reason to give up hope, although it is impossible yet to ascertain the extent of the injury.”

Beatrice retreated a step or two:  she stood by the table, one hand upon it, as if for support, yet her figure quite erect, her eyes fixed on his face, and her voice firm, though husky, as she said, slowly and quietly, “Papa, if Fred dies, it is my doing.”

His face did not express surprise or horror—­nothing but kindness and compassion, while he answered, “My poor girl, I was afraid how it might have been.”  Then he led her to a chair and sat down by her side, so as to let her perceive that he was ready to listen, and would give her time.  He might be in haste, but it was no time to show it.

She now spoke with more hurry and agitation, “Yes, yes, papa, it was the very thing you warned me against—­I mean—­I mean—­the being set in my own way, and liking to tease the boys.  O if I could but speak to tell you all, but it seems like a weight here choking me,” and she touched her throat.  “I can’t get it out in words!  O!” Poor Beatrice even groaned aloud with oppression.

“Do not try to express it,” said her father:  “at least, it is not I who can give you the best comfort.  Here”—­and he took up a Prayer Book.