It was a cold, raw day, and a fog was settling in the streets through which they drove very slowly in the large, roomy carriage in which Mrs. Grey half sat, half lay among cushions and shawls, and attended by the nurse who accompanied them from Liverpool.

Very anxiously Louie peered out into the darkness and fog, seeing nothing distinctly until they drew up suddenly before a brilliantly lighted hotel, where many hands were extended to carry Mrs. Grey to rooms far more luxuriously furnished than those in Liverpool. There was a salon and two sleeping-rooms and bath attached, and into one of the sleeping-rooms Mrs. Grey was taken and laid upon the bed, saying as she felt the warmth of the soft pillow and blankets around her:

“This is like home in the best room. Let’s stay here awhile. I’m so tired, and the ship rolled so terribly.”

Nothing surprised her, nor mattered, so long as Louie was with her; nor did she open her eyes when a voice different from Louie’s or Fred’s or the nurse’s said to her:

“How are you feeling, Mrs. Grey? Don’t you remember me?”

Louie, who was in the other bedroom, heard and recognized the voice, and hurrying into her mother’s room was met and embraced by Miss Percy.

CHAPTER XXI
AT THE SAVOY

It had been Fred’s intention to hurry on to Paris and the pleasant house near the Arch of Triumph, occupied by his mother and Miss Percy. But when he saw how weak Mrs. Grey was, he gave up that idea, and wired to Miss Percy to meet him, if possible, at the Savoy, in London, and have rooms ready for Mrs. Grey and Louie. It was her answer received on the train, which made him so glad by relieving him from a load of anxiety. He felt that Mrs. Grey was seriously ill, and needed the support of some woman besides the nurse. Something, too, in Louie’s face warned him that the excitement of the last few months, and the fatigue of the voyage were telling upon her. He might nurse her himself. He would rather like the job; but somebody must care for Mrs. Grey, and no one could be better than Miss Percy, who had hurried to London, and secured the best accommodations possible for the party.

“Don’t say a word. You are to keep quiet,” she said, when Louie began to protest and try to explain. “I know everything from Mr. Blake, to whom I wrote, asking for particulars, and only wish I had been there to help you. I have long wanted something to do—something to care for and divert my mind. I have you at last, and am glad. So sit still and take the good the gods provide.”

And Louie took the good. In fact, she was too tired and worn to do much else than sit still and let others care for her and her mother. The latter did not improve as they hoped she might. It was more than nervous exhaustion. It was a general breaking up of all the life centers of her being, and she could not rally. For the most of the time she thought herself at home, but nearly always seemed to know that her husband was dead. Sometimes she talked to him, and told him she was coming to join him and that everything he had left in a tangle would be straightened by Louie and Mr. Lansing. She frequently coupled their names together; and Louie’s cheeks would burn as she heard it, and then turn white, with the fear gathering strength day by day as she sat by her mother’s side, and watched the flickering flame brightening at intervals and then dying down until it went out forever: and Louie was alone so far as her mother was concerned, but surrounded with everything which love and sympathy could devise to comfort her.