A silence hung over the Moat House that night. The servants moved about with noiseless footsteps, and spoke in hushed tones, their thoughts full of the bright little girl who had endeared herself to them all. In the sitting-room in the east wing Celia lay huddled up on the sofa, a heap of misery, no longer weeping, though an occasional sob shook her slender form, whilst Eric sat with his elbows resting on the table, and one hand covering his eyes.
"What is the time?" Celia inquired at length.
"Ten o'clock," her brother replied, after consulting his watch; "don't you think you'd better go to bed?"
"Oh, no! I couldn't! Not before Dr. Forbes has been here! You think he'll be sure to come?" she asked, with feverish anxiety.
"Yes, he said he would, and if anything happened to prevent his keeping his word, I'm sure the Vicar would come himself, or send Putty."
"Concussion of the brain is very dangerous, isn't it, Eric?"
"Yes, very." A slight pause, then the boy continued: "I think Uncle Jasper is very grieved about Joy. I expect he's glad, though, that he's been so much nicer to her lately. They're quite good friends now, you know!"
"Are they? I'm so pleased to hear that," Celia responded, heartily, her tear-stained countenance brightening.
Eric regarded his sister approvingly, and getting up from his chair he went over to the sofa and sat down by her side, addressing her more kindly and sympathetically than he had done at all.
"This is a sad end to your visit, poor Celia!" he said; "but you must try to be brave, and," he added in a low tone, "we can pray for Joy, you know."