'No, mother. Thank you, I want nothing.'

He was half conscious of the bitter irony of it as he said it.

Mrs. Marston was looking at his knees.

'Oh, my dear, I know now,' she said; 'I beg your pardon for saying you
wanted a powder. You were with the Lord. You could not have been better
occupied on your wedding morning!'

She was very much touched. Edward flushed darkly, conscious of how he
had been occupied.

'There!' cried she; 'now you're as flushed as you were pale. It's the
fever. I'll mix you something that will soon put you all right.'

'I only wish you could,' he sighed.

'And what I wanted,' said she, catching at her previous thought in the
same blind way as she caught at her skirts on muddy days--'what I
wanted, dear, was--it's so heavy, the cake--'

'You want me to lift it, mother?'

'Yes, my dear. How well you know! And mind not to spoil the icing; it's
so hard not to, it being so white and brittle.'

'No, I won't spoil the white,' he said earnestly, 'however hard it is.'