sat, her chin on her hand, looking out across the hills, in resolute
abstraction. She felt her father's fingers press hers, as if to draw her
attention, for he, weak man, was ever ready to open his hand and heart to
any friendly soul. She took no notice, but held his hand firmly, as
though to say that she had no wish to see.

She was conscious now that they were beside her father's bed. She hoped
that they would pass. But no, the feet stopped, there was whispering,
and then she heard a voice say, "Rather rude!" then another, "Not
wanted, that's plain!"--the first a woman's, the second a man's. Then
another voice, clear and cold, and well modulated, said to her father:
"They tell me you have been here a long time, and have had much pain.
You will be glad to go, I am sure."

Something in the voice startled her. Some familiar sound or inflection
struck upon her ear with a far-off note, some lost tone she knew. Of
what, of whom, did this voice remind her? She turned round quickly and
caught two cold blue eyes looking at her. The face was older than her
own, handsome and still, and happy in a placid sort of way. Few gusts of
passion or of pain had passed across that face. The figure was shapely
to the newest fashion, the bonnet was perfect, the hand which held two
books was prettily gloved. Polite charity was written in her manner and
consecrated every motion. On the instant, Rosalie resented this fine
epitome of convention, this dutiful charity-monger, herself the centre of
an admiring quartet. She saw the whispering, she noted the well-bred
disguise of interest, and she met the visitor's gaze with cold courtesy.
The other read the look in her face, and a slightly pacifying smile
gathered at her lips.

"We are glad to hear that your father is better. He has been ill a long