“And my lady has so little sleep,” they said, pityingly, “we never awake her.”

I wish, my darling, that for both of us it had been the long, sweet sleep from which there is no awaking.

CHAPTER VI.

The first three days following Miss Reinhart’s arrival were a holiday.  My father himself showed her over the house, took her through the picture galleries, told her all the legends of the place.  She walked out in the grounds and had learned to make herself quite at home.  Sir Roland told her that she must do so, that her duties and responsibilities would be great.  She must therefore take care of herself.

I was with them in the picture gallery, and Sir Roland never stopped to think that it would perhaps be better not to discuss such things before me.

“I hope,” he said, “to interest you in the whole place.  I cannot tell you how different things are when the mistress of the house is ill and helpless.”

“I am sure it must be so,” she said, in that sweet voice, which I felt to be false and hated.

“At any time,” he said, “if you see things going wrong I should be grateful for a little management on your part.”

“I will always do my very best for you, Sir Roland,” she said, earnestly, and I could feel in some vague way that she was sympathizing with him and pitying him in a way that was against my mother’s interests.  I could hardly tell how.

“Have you a good housekeeper?” she asked, and my father answered: 

“Mrs. Eastwood has been here over fifty years, I believe.”

“Ah!” said Miss Reinhart, “that is too long; those very old housekeepers are faithful, and all that kind of thing, but they are seldom of much use.  If everything does not go on as you wish in this unfortunate state of things, rely upon it that is what is wrong.  You should pension this good Mrs. Eastwood off, and get some one young and active, with a thorough knowledge of her business.”

“We will talk about it later on,” he said.  “I have no doubt but that you are quite right.”

She looked up into his face with tender anxiety; I saw the look, and could have killed her for it.

“You know that I am devoted to your interests.” she said.  “I will cheerfully and gladly do everything and anything I can,” she said, “to help you.  You know you may command my services when and how you will.”

She spoke with the air of a grandduchess offering to obtain court patronage, and my father made her a low, sweeping bow.

Who was she, that she should talk to my father of “unfortunate circumstances,” and of her devotion to him?  As for things going wrong, it was not true—­my mother, from her sofa, ordered the household, and I knew there was nothing wrong.

When my father saw the angry, pained expression on my face, an idea seemed to occur to him.  He called me to his side, and whispered to me: