not under another governess) when her mother was able to attend
to her: she played with her toys, and went out riding on her
pony. But the delightful gayety of other days was gone; the
shrill laughter that once rang through the house was heard no
more. Kitty had become a quiet child; and, worse still, a child
who seemed to be easily tired.

The doctor was consulted.

He was a man skilled in the sound medical practice that learns
its lessons without books--bedside practice. His opinion declared
that the child's vital power was seriously lowered. "Some cause
is at work here," he said to the mother, "which I don't
understand. Can you help me?" Mrs. Linley helped him without
hesitation. "My little daughter dearly loved her governess; and
her governess has been obliged to leave us." That was her reply.
The doctor wanted to hear no more; he at once advised that Kitty
should be taken to the seaside, and that everything which might
remind her of the absent friend--books, presents, even articles
of clothing likely to revive old associations--should be left at
home. A new life, in new air. When pen, ink, and paper were
offered to him, that was the doctor's prescription.

Mrs. Linley consulted her husband on the choice of the seaside
place to which the child should be removed.

The blank which Sydney's departure left in the life of the
household was felt by the master and mistress of Mount
Morven--and felt, unhappily, without any open avowal on either
side of what was passing in their minds. In this way the