A telegraphic message had arrived from Augustine; yes, there was the precious little leaf, which, like the touch of a magician’s wand, changed the face of everything around, and flooded the dry, haggard cheek of sorrow with a torrent of grateful tears.
Cliff Cottage, B——, Devon.
“Safe, thank God! I shall send M—— home to-morrow. I remain here with the earl, who is attacked by brain fever. I have telegraphed to Exeter for Dr. G—— and a nurse.—A. A.”
“Brain fever!” exclaimed the countess with a gasp.
“Temporary illness, I trust,—only temporary,” said the vicar, from whose heart the weight of a mountain seemed removed. “Augustine, thoughtful as he ever is, has already taken every human means to insure recovery.”
“My Reginald shall be left to no nurse; no, no, none shall rob me of one privilege,” cried Annabella. “I will be at B—— beside him to-night.”
“I will be your escort,” said Lawrence Aumerle.
“Oh, take me too!” exclaimed Ida, her dark eyes swimming in tears at the thought of seeing her sister.
“No, no,” interrupted Mrs. Aumerle, “numbers are by no means desirable where a man in brain fever is concerned. It is bad enough for your father to have to undertake a long journey, without the whole family hurrying off. You will stay here with me, my dear, and welcome back Mabel to-morrow.”