"My uncle is sorry, Miss Lingard, that he cannot come to see your
brother to-day, but he is laid up with an attack of asthma. He
wished Mr. Lingard to know that he was thinking of him:--shall I
tell you just what he said?"

Helen bent her neck: she did not feel much interest in the matter.
But Leopold said,

"Every word of such a good man is precious: tell me, please."

Rachel turned to him with the flush of a white rose on her face.

"I asked him, sir--'Shall I tell him you are praying for him?' and
he said, 'No. I am not exactly praying for him, but I am thinking of
God and him together.'"

The tears rose in Leopold's eyes. Rachel lifted her baby-hand, and
stroked the dusky, long-fingured one that lay upon the arm of the
chair.

"Dear Mr. Lingard," she said,--Helen stopped in the middle of an
embroidery stitch, and gave her a look as if she were about to ask
for her testimonials--"I could well wish, if it pleased God, that I
were as near home as you."

Leopold took her hand in his.

"Do you suffer then?" he said.