"Never speak of it，" said the clergyman. "Hot water and blankets don't cost much， and you will have to pay for the brandy and the doctor. How is he， doctor？""He is getting on very well indeed， Mr. Granger. But I daresay you find yourself rather stiff， Mr. Bingham. I see your head is pretty badly bruised.""Yes，" he answered， laughing， "and so is my body. Shall I be able to go home to-day？""I think so，" said the doctor， "but not before this evening. You had better keep quiet till then. You will be glad to hear that Miss Beatrice is getting on very well. Hers was a wonderful recovery， the most wonderful I ever saw. I had quite given her up， though I should have kept on the treatment for another hour. You ought to be grateful to Miss Beatrice， Mr. Bingham. But for her you would not have been here.""I am most grateful，" he answered earnestly. "Shall I be able to see her to-day？""Yes， I think so， some time this afternoon， say at three o'clock. Is that your little daughter？ What a lovely child she is. Well， I will look in again about twelve. All that you require to do now is to keep quiet and rub in some arnica."About an hour afterwards the servant girl brought Geoffrey some breakfast of tea and toast. He felt quite hungry， but when it came to the pinch he could not eat much. Effie， who was starving， made up for this deficiency， however； she ate all the toast and a couple of slices of bread and butter after it. Scarcely had they finished， when her father observed a shade of anxiety come upon his little daughter's face.
"What is it， Effie？" he asked.
"I think，" replied Effie in evident trepidation， "I think that I hear mother outside and Anne too.""Well， dear， they have come to see me."
"Yes， and to scold me because I ran away，" and the child drew nearer to her father in a fashion which would have made it clear to any observer that the relations between her and her mother were somewhat strained.
Effie was right. Presently there was a knock at the door and Lady Honoria entered， calm and pale and elegant as ever. She was followed by a dark-eyed somewhat impertinent-looking French /bonne/， who held up her hands and ejaculated， "Mon Dieu！" as she appeared.
"I thought so，" said Lady Honoria， speaking in French to the /bonne/.
"There she is，" and she pointed at the runaway Effie with her parasol.
"Mon Dieu！" said the woman again. "Vous voilà enfin， et moi， qui suis accablée de peur， et votre chère mère aussi； oh， mais que c'est méchant； et regardez donc， avec un soulier seulement. Mais c'est affreux！""Hold your tongue，" said Geoffrey sharply， "and leave Miss Effie alone. She came to see me."Anne ejaculated， "Mon Dieu！" once more and collapsed.
"Really， Geoffrey，" said his wife， "the way you spoil that child is something shocking. She is wilful as can be， and you make her worse.
It is very naughty of her to run away like that and give us such a hunt. How are we to get her home， I wonder， with only one shoe."Her husband bit his lip， and his forehead contracted itself above the dark eyes. It was not the first time that he and Lady Honoria had come to words about the child， with whom his wife was not in sympathy.
Indeed she had never forgiven Effie for appearing in this world at all. Lady Honoria did not belong to that class of women who think maternity is a joy.
"Anne，" he said， "take Miss Effie and carry her till you can find a donkey. She can ride back to the lodgings." The nurse murmured something in French about the child being as heavy as lead.
"Do as I bid you，" he said sharply， in the same language. "Effie， my love， give me a kiss and go home. Thank you for coming to see me."The child obeyed and went. Lady Honoria stood and watched her go， tapping her little foot upon the floor， and with a look upon her cold， handsome face that was not altogether agreeable to see.
It had sometimes happened that， in the course of his married life， Geoffrey returned home with a little of that added fondness which absence is fabled to beget. On these occasions he was commonly so unfortunate as to find that Lady Honoria belied the saying， that she greeted him with arrears of grievances and was， if possible， more frigid than ever.
Was this to be repeated now that he had come back from what was so near to being the longest absence of all？ It looked like it. He noted symptoms of the rising storm， symptoms with which he was but too well acquainted， and both for his own sake and for hers--for above all things Geoffrey dreaded these bitter matrimonial bickerings--tried to think of something kind to say. It must be owned that he did not show much tact in the subject he selected， though it was one which might have stirred the sympathies of some women. It is so difficult to remember that one is dealing with a Lady Honoria.
"If ever we have another child----" he began gently.
"Excuse me interrupting you，" said the lady， with a suavity which did not however convey any idea of the speaker's inward peace， "but it is a kindness to prevent you from going on in that line. /One/ darling is ample for me.""Well，" said the miserable Geoffrey， with an effort， "even if you don't care much about the child yourself， it is a little unreasonable to object because she cares for me and was sorry when she thought that I was dead. Really， Honoria， sometimes I wonder if you have any heart at all. Why should you be put out because Effie got up early to come and see me？--an example which I must admit you did not set her. And as to her shoe----" he added smiling.
"You may laugh about her shoe， Geoffrey，" she interrupted， "but you forget that even little things like that are no laughing matter now to us. The child's shoes keep me awake at night sometimes. Defoy has not been paid for I don't know how long. I have a mind to get her /sabots/--and as to heart----"
