Matthew Rose had settled himself at the best hotel Linwell could boast, and was anxiously biding his time to make the acquaintance of his young nephews and nieces.
A great sorrow hung over The Gables; the boys with softened tones and noiseless footsteps moved about the house, as though the Death Angel had already entered. There was sorrow too at York House, for Mrs. Wilfrid dearly loved her little niece; the child with her winsome ways had completely vanquished the heart of the worldly-minded woman.
Reg was strangely moody and silent in these days. He would watch for his mother's return after one of her frequent visits to The Gables, with a white and anxious face.
"How is she to-day, mother?" he inquired one morning with intense eagerness, seeing an expression of deep sadness on her face.
"She is conscious, Reg, but I have seen the doctor, and he gives little hope that she will ever be strong and well again, even if her life is spared, which is doubtful." Tears checked further utterance, and she hid her eyes with her handkerchief.
Reg's expression of terrified grief would have frightened her, could she have seen it. A groan of anguish escaped his lips, which caused his mother to look at him with surprise.
"Why, Reg, I didn't know you took any notice of the child," she said.
"Oh, mother!" he cried, utterly broken down. "If she dies, I am her murderer."
"My dear boy, what are you saying?"
"I can't bear it, mother, I can't! The doctor 'must' make her well!" he sobbed.