What would she have done without him, she thought, as she closed her heavy eyes. Unconsciously they seemed to have resumed their old relations towards each other; it was Richard and Ethel now. Richard's caressing manner had returned; no brother could have watched over her more devotedly, more reverently; and yet he had never loved her so well as when, all her imperiousness gone, and with her brave spirit well-nigh broken, she seemed all the more dependent on his sympathy and care.
But the first smile that crossed her face was for Mildred, when Dr. Heriot brought her up to Kirkleatham the first evening after their arrival. Mildred almost cried over her when she took her in her arms; the contrast to her own happiness was so great.
'Oh, Ethel, Ethel,' was all she could say, 'my poor girl!'
'Yes, I am that and much more,' she returned, yielding to her friend's embrace; 'utterly poor and wretched. Has he—has Dr. Heriot told you all he feared?'
'That there can only be partial recovery? Yes, I know he fears that; but then one cannot tell in these cases; you may have him still for years.'
'Ah, but if he should have another stroke? I know what Dr. Heriot thinks—it is a bad case; he has said so to Richard.'
'Poor child! it is so hard not to be able to comfort you.'
'No one can do that so long as I have him before my eyes in this state. Mildred, you cannot conceive what a wreck he is; no power of speech, only those inarticulate sounds.'
'I am glad Cardie is able to be so much with you.'
A sensitive colour overspread Ethel's worn face.