She knew her father was sitting on edge all the time, and that her
mistakes were grating on him, and at the end of the song, rather
than turn round immediately and face them all, she began to play
Kowalski's March Hongroise. But the keys seemed to be rising up
and hitting her hands, and the piano was growing unsteady, and
rocking to and fro in an alarming manner; she made a horrible
jangle as she clutched at the music-holder for safety, and the
next minute swayed from the stool and fell in a dead, faint right
into Dr. Gormeston's arms, providentially extended just in time.

The heavy, heated atmosphere had proved too much for her, in her
unhinged state of mind. Captain Woolcot was extraordinarily
upset by the occurrence; not one of his children had ever done
such a thing before, and as Meg lay on the sofa, with her
little fair head drooping against the red frilled cushions, her
face white and unconscious, she looked strangely like her mother,
whom he had buried out in the churchyard four years ago. He went
to the filter for a glass of water, and, as it trickled, wondered
in a dull, mechanical kind of way if his little dead wife thought
he had been too quick in appointing Esther to her kingdom. And
then, as he stood near the sofa and looked at the death-like face,
he wondered with a cold chill at his heart whether Meg was going
to die, too, and if so would she be able to tell the same little
wife that Esther received more tenderness at his hands than she
had done.

His reverie was interrupted by the doctor's sharp, surprised
voice. He was talking to Esther, who had been hastily summoned to
the scene, and who had helped to unfasten the pretty bodice.