So she smiled, and answered grandpapa in her favourite style, so that no one would have guessed from her demeanour that a task had been imposed upon her which she so much disliked, and in truth her thoughts were much more on others than on herself.  She saw all hopeful and happy about Fred, and as to her aunt, when she saw her as usual with all her playful gentleness, she could not think that there was anything seriously amiss with her, or if there was, mamma would find out and set it all to rights.  Then how soothing and comforting, now that the first acute pain of remorse was over, was that affectionate kindness, which, in every little gesture and word, Aunt Mary had redoubled to her ever since the accident.

Fred was all this time lying on his sofa, very glad to rest after so much talking:  weak, dizzy, and languid, and throwing all the blame of his uncomfortable sensations on Philip Carey and the starvation system, but still, perhaps, not without thoughts of a less discontented nature, for when Mr. Geoffrey Langford came to help him to bed, he said, as he watched the various arrangements his uncle was for the last time sedulously making for his comfort, “Uncle Geoffrey, I ought to thank you very much; I am afraid I have been a great plague to you.”

Perhaps Fred did not say this in all sincerity, for any one but Uncle Geoffrey would have completely disowned the plaguing, and he fully expected him to do so; but his uncle had a stern regard for truth, coupled with a courtesy which left it no more harshness than was salutary.

“Anything for your good, my dear sir,” said he, with a smile.  “You are welcome to plague me as much as you like, only remember that your mamma is not quite so tough.”

“Well, I do try to be considerate about her,” said Fred.  “I mean to make her rest as much as possible; Henrietta and I have been settling how to save her.”

“You could save her more than all, Fred, if you would spare her discussions.”

Fred held his tongue, for though his memory was rather cloudy about the early part of his illness, he did remember having seen her look greatly harassed one day lately when he had been arguing against Philip Carey.

Uncle Geoffrey proceeded to gather up some of the outlines which Henrietta had left on the sofa.  “I like those very much,” said Fred, “especially the Fight with the Dragon.”

“You know Schiller’s poem on it?” said Uncle Geoffrey.

“Yes, Henrietta has it in German.”

“Well, it is what I should especially recommend to your consideration.”

“I am afraid it will be long enough before I am able to go out on a dragon-killing expedition,” said Fred, with a weary helpless sigh.

“Fight the dragon at home, then, Freddy.  Now is the time for—­

’The duty hardest to fulfil,
To learn to yield our own self-will.’”