"Do you really think so?" said Mrs. Staunton. "Yes, I mustn't be ill; George doesn't like it—it quite frets him. He is not like his dear father. He wants a cheerful home—no wonder, he is young, dear lad, he is young. Yes, I'll go to bed, and then I'll be all right in the morning. Come, Effie, help your mother to bed."
Effie took the poor woman out of the room. They went into the little bedroom. She helped her mother to undress. When she saw her lay her head on the pillow, she went back to the sitting room, where Lawson was quietly standing.
"I happened most fortunately," he said, the moment he saw her, "to have some packets of bromide in my pocket. There is sal-volatile in the room. I have made up a rather strong composing-draught for your mother. If she takes it, she will sleep peacefully and will not be likely to wake until the morning. Give it to her at once, and then come back to me—I have something to tell you."
Effie's trembling knees could scarcely support her as she went back to the next room.
"Has George come yet?" asked the mother.
"Not yet, mother; won't you take this medicine, please?"
"Yes, my love, yes. Effie, you are a very good girl—a great comfort to me, my darling. I'm glad you never went to the hospital; it was a mad, foolish scheme, and George never liked it. You are a great comfort to me, and a great comfort to your dear brother. You'll be sure to give him his dinner comfortably when he comes back, Effie?"
"Yes, mother, yes. Now do go to sleep, dear mother."
Mrs. Staunton drank off the medicine, laid her head on her pillow, and closed her dim, dark eyes. Effie watched by her until she thought she was dropping asleep. Pretty little Marjory was lying sound asleep in the same bed. Phil opened his big eyes as his sister passed.
"Is anything the matter?" he whispered. "Is anything wrong with George?"