But it had broken the spell.
Rose smiled, thanked her, and broke into a flood of tears.
“That’s better,” said Henrietta, the tears in her own eyes. “Just let me see you in bed, Rose, and then I’ll leave you alone in the dark. It’s all one can do, I suppose.”
When she came downstairs again, she wrote a letter to her brother in London.
“I don’t think Rose will go back to the Aviolets, though I don’t know what happened, exactly. Probably something to do with Cecil. But when this bad bit is over, she’ll want something to do, and I daresay you can help her about it. Anyway, come, if you can.”
Dr. Lucian came.
It was characteristic of the fine and delicate relationship between the brother and sister, that his first inquiry was for Henrietta’s own increasingly frail health. Afterwards, he asked her about Rose.
“She’s heard from Cecil—one of those field post-cards. And she’s talking about work, just as I said she would. She’ll ask you about it.”
“I’ve a suggestion to make to her.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Henrietta significantly.