"I wish those bells could be stopped!" she exclaimed, "They deafen me."
Mrs. Beale had also risen from her chair, smiling mechanically, but with pain and perplexity at her heart. "I am sure it is the journey," she said. "It has quite upset you. Your nerves are all jarred. You must really lie down for a little—see, dearest, here on the couch; and keep quite quiet." She arranged the cushions.
"Come, dear," she urged, "like a good child, and I will cover you up."
Edith had been accustomed to this kind of gentle compulsion all her life, and as she yielded to it now she began to feel more like herself. "I knew I should be better with you, mother," she said sighing; and then she reached up her arm, and drew her mother's face down to hers. "Kiss me, mother, and tell me you forgive me for being impatient."
"Dear child, you are not impatient," her mother answered, adding to herself, as she returned to her seat; "I hope it is only impatience!"
Edith had turned her face to the wall, and soon appeared to be asleep. Then her mother went down to the library. The bishop rose from his writing table when she entered. It was a habit of his to be polite to his wife.
"I think you were right last night about Edith," she said. "She is not as she should be. Write to Dr. Galbraith. Ask him to come here to-morrow. Ask him to dine and stay the night, as if it were only an ordinary visit—not to alarm her, you know. But tell him why we want him to come. I am nervous about her."
Mrs. Beale's face quivered, and she burst into tears as she spoke.
"Oh, my dear! I am sure there is no need to agitate yourself," the bishop exclaimed. "Now do—now don't, really! See! I will write at once."
He sat down, and began, "My dear George," and then looked up at his wife to see if she were not already relieved.