"You have told her too suddenly," observed Althea, in an alarmed voice. But Thorold, without a word, took the girl from her father's arms and laid her on a couch.
"She has fainted," he said, briefly. "You had better bring some brandy and smelling-salts. The sudden revulsion has been too much for her." And then he helped Althea apply the remedies, while Everard stood helplessly by, too shocked and troubled to be of any use.
It seemed long before Waveney opened her eyes. She seemed rather confused at first. As Thorold put a glass to her lips, she looked at him a little wildly.
"Is it another dream?" she whispered. "Was not father here really?"
Then Thorold smiled at her.
"It was no dream," he said, quietly. "The good news is quite true. Mr. Ward, will you take my place, please?"
Then Everard knelt down by her couch. Waveney's weak arms were round his neck in a moment.
"Father," she said, pressing her cheek against his, "tell it me again. Mollie—my Mollie—is not going to die?"
Then Everard, in rather a tremulous voice, repeated the good news. There had been a change for the better early in the day, but he had waited until the afternoon for the physician's verdict. The danger that they dreaded was no longer imminent; the disease had run its course; everything depended now upon skilful nursing, with care and watchfulness; Sir Hindley hoped that Mollie would, in time, recover her normal strength; but in this insidious disease there was the danger of sudden collapse from exhaustion—indeed, there were other risks, but Everard did not mention this.
Waveney listened with painful attention; then her heavy eyes were fixed wistfully on her father's face.