Beatrix could not speak; she could not utter a word; she could only sit staring blankly before her, hearing Serena's terrible words, yet not heeding them apparently. But all the same every word, every syllable, sank into her heart like a branding iron, and stayed there. Perhaps it was true. Doubtless the courts of law would give Keith his freedom, if there was any law to fit this special and unusual case.
She would try. For his sake she would give him back his freedom. All this flashed through her brain as she sat there under Serena's scathing words, saying nothing, but hearing all. Old Bernard Dane intervened at length.
"Serena," he said, in his dictatorial way, "this is quite enough; you have no right to annoy and trouble poor Beatrix in this fashion. My child," turning to Beatrix with a deprecating air, "tell me, do you discover any symptoms of—of that awful trouble? How is your health, my dear?"
Beatrix's eyes—full of mournful protest—met his gaze.
"I am very well," she returned, gently; "never was better in my life. And I find no trace of anything that could ever so remotely resemble that awful thing to which you refer. It may be in my system, but so far I see nothing—"
She choked down the emotion which overpowered her, and turned aside.
"Never mind, child. Don't trouble yourself to explain to me," cried the old man, hastily. "I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I only wanted to know. Now, Serena, if you are satisfied, I think we had better take our departure. Then we can not see Keith?"
Beatrix shook her head.
"He will recover, I feel sure," she returned; "but his recovery rests entirely upon his being kept quiet. Doctor Darrow says that it will take time. Several of his ribs are broken, and he has sustained other injuries. I will let you know every day how he is, Uncle Bernard."
"Thank you, my dear; thank you!" he cried, as he rose to go.