“This is not a fit dress for you, Sibylla—­”

“Lionel has been putting you up to say it, papa!” she burst forth.

Dr. West looked at her.  He surmised, what was indeed the case, that her husband had remonstrated against the unsuitableness of the attire, to one in her condition.

“You have heard every word Mr. Verner has spoken to me, Sibylla.  You should be wrapped up warmly always.  To be exposed as you are now, is enough to—­to”—­give you your death, he was about to say, but changed the words—­“make you very ill.”

“Decima and Lucy Tempest dress so,” she returned in a tone that threatened tears.

Dr. West lifted his eyes to where Decima and Lucy were standing with Lord Garle.  Decima wore a silk dress, Lucy a white one; each made evening fashion.

“They are both healthy,” he said, “and may wear what they please.  Look at their necks, compared to yours, Sibylla.  I shall ask Mr. Verner to put all these thin dresses, these low bodies, behind the fire.”

“He would only have the pleasure of paying for others to replace them,” was the undutiful rejoinder.  “Papa, I have enough trouble, without your turning against me.”

Turning against her!  Dr. West did not point out how purposeless were her words.  His intention was to come in in the morning, and talk to her seriously of her state of health, and the precautions it was necessary to observe.  He took a sip of his coffee, and turned to Lionel.

“I was about to ask you a superfluous question, Mr. Verner—­whether that lost codicil has been heard of.  But your leaving Verner’s Pride is an answer.”

“It has never been heard of,” replied Lionel.  “When John Massingbird returned and put in his claim—­when he took possession, I may say, for the one was coeval with the other—­the wanting of the codicil was indeed a grievance; far more than it had appeared at the time of its loss.”

“You must regret it very much.”

“I regret it always,” he answered.  “I regret it bitterly for Sibylla’s sake.”

“Papa,” she cried, in deep emotion, her cheeks becoming crimson, her blue eyes flashing with an unnatural light, “if that codicil could be found it would save my life.  Jan, in his rough, stupid way, tells me I am fretting myself into my grave.  Perhaps I am.  I want to go back to Verner’s Pride.”

It was not a pleasant subject to converse on; it was a subject utterly hopeless—­and Dr. West sought one more genial.  Ranging his eyes over the room, they fell upon Lord Garle, who was still talking with Decima and Lucy.

“Which of the two young ladies makes the viscount’s attraction, Mr. Verner?”

Lionel smiled.  “They do not take me into their confidence, sir; any one of the three.”

“I am sure it is not Decima, papa,” spoke up Sibylla.  “She’s as cold as a stone.  I won’t answer for its not being Lucy Tempest.  Lord Garle comes here a good deal, and he and Lucy seem great friends.  I often think he comes for Lucy.”