"She shall be."
"She had better do nothing energetic."
"Certainly not." He frowned heavily, as though he saw difficulties here.
"Women," said the doctor genially, "are difficult to manage. They think they're indispensable, and they're right—but Mrs. Webb must be persuaded that she's not. You're fortunate in having daughters. Miss Grace is very capable. She has a head. I think you can rely on her."
"Yes," he said—"yes." He was forlorn and afraid as he closed the door on the doctor, and he saw Nancy afloat on an ebbing tide. She was leaving him, very slowly; she was dwindling in his sight, and soon there would be no more than a memory of her fragrance. He could not stay the mighty sea which bore her from him, but he strained his eyes for another glimpse of her grace, and a sob jerked itself from his throat. "Nancy," he said, "not yet, not yet!" He made indefinite movements with his hands. He had not known how ill she was. She had hidden her suffering from him, she was brave and good, and he must keep her. Again he called on her name, curving his fingers as though they held her hand. There was a creaking of the stairs. He felt his arm clasped.
"What did he say?" Theresa whispered. "Tell me—tell me, oh, what did he say?"
They went together to the dark dining-room, and sat close to the table on the hard, leather-covered chairs.
"She will recover," he said, stretching his limp arms on the tablecloth; "but she will need care, constant care, Theresa. She must have no excitement, no shock, no worry."
"I'll help you." The words were hard to say, but her reward came.
"I have great faith in you, Theresa."