time?"

Rosalie started again, for the voice perplexed her--rather, not the
voice, but the inflection, the deliberation.

She bowed, and set her lips, but, chancing to glance at her father, she
saw that he was troubled by her manner. Flashing a look of love at him,
she adjusted the pillow under his head, and said to her questioner in a
low voice: "He is better now, thank you."

Encouraged, the other rejoined: "May I leave one or two books for him to
read--or for you to read to him?" Then added hastily, for she saw a
curious look in Rosalie's eyes: "We can have mutual friends in books,
though we cannot be friends with each other. Books are the go-betweens
of humanity."

Rosalie's heart leapt, she flushed, then grew slightly pale, for
it was not tone or inflection alone that disturbed her now, but words
themselves. A voice from over the hills seemed to say these things to
her. A haunting voice from over the hills had said them to her--these
very words.

"Friends need no go-betweens," she said quietly, "and enemies should not
use them."

She heard a voice say, "By Jove!" in a tone of surprise, as though it
were wonderful the girl from Chaudiere should have her wits about her.
So Rosalie interpreted it.

"Have you many friends here?" asked the cold voice, meant to be kindly