"Yes, sir; she cannot speak well."
"No wonder; she has only herself to thank," he muttered, as Charlotte Delves left the room. "The wonder would be if she were not ill."
"Why?" asked Mr. Barley, curiously, lifting his head.
"Oh, she got frightened last night when poor Philip was brought in, and ran out in the fog after me with nothing on."
He released my arm, and Mr. Barley put a chair for me beside him, and gave me some breakfast. I had taken quite a liking to him, he was so simple and kind. He told me he had no little girls or boys of his own, and his wife was always ill, unable to go out.
"Mrs. Edwin Barley appears exceedingly poorly," said Charlotte Delves, when she returned. "Lowe said he should be here this morning; he shall see her when he comes. She must have taken cold."
Scarcely had she spoken when the surgeon arrived. Mr. Edwin Barley went upstairs with him. Mr. Lowe came down alone afterwards, and I caught a moment to speak to him when no one was listening.
"Will my Aunt Selina get well, sir?"
"I do not know, my dear," he answered, turning upon me his grave face. "I fear she is going to be very ill."
Sunday came to an end; oh, such a dull day it had seemed!—and Monday morning dawned. It was Selina's birthday: she was twenty-one.