"Ah, if that is the case, we shall call frequently upon her. It may do her some good;" she looked at Jessie as she spoke.
"Mamma will be so pleased," she said, quite firmly; "it is very monotonous to live always shut up in her room; she is naturally very social, and to such, solitude is mournful."
"So it is; but I pity the young most! If I could only have taken my poor boy's illness in his stead."
She was checked by the entrance of an old servant, who whispered something in her ear.
"Will you go up-stairs?" she said, turning to me; "my grandson knows you are here."
She took Jessie's hand softly, leading her away, and I followed. Jessie bore up like a little Spartan, but I could see what an effort it was,—I pitied her far more than any one else.
CHAPTER XXXV.
YOUNG BOSWORTH'S SICK-ROOM.
When we entered the sick-room, it was a shock to Jessie. In spite of all I had said, she was not prepared to find Bosworth so changed. They had put a dressing-gown upon him, but its gay colors only increased the ghastliness of his face, already wasted and worn by fever.