“That would be to promise a great deal, Mr. Landholm,” said Elizabeth looking up earnestly.

“What then?”

Elizabeth looked down and was silent, but musing much to herself.

“Is it too much of a promise to make?” said he gravely.

“No —­” said Elizabeth slowly, —­ “but more than I am ready to make.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, Mr. Landholm,” said she looking up again at him, “I don’t believe I should keep it if I made it.”

“You expect me to say, in that case you are quite right not to make it.  No, —­ you are quite wrong.”

He waited a little; but said no more, and Elizabeth could not.  Then he left the room and she heard him going down stairs! Her first thought was to spring up and go after to help him to whatever he wanted; then she remembered that he and Clam could manage it without her, and that he would certainly choose to have it so.  She curled herself up on her sofa and laying her head on the cushion in more quiet wise, she went off into a long fit of musing; for Winthrop’s steps, when they came from down stairs went straight up stairs again, without turning into the parlour.  She mused, on her duty, her danger, her sorrow and her joy.  There was something akin to joy in the enormous comfort, rest, and pleasure she felt in Winthrop’s presence.  But it was very grave musing after all; for her duty, or the image of it, she shrank from; her danger she shrank from more unequivocally; and joy and sorrow could but hold a mixed and miserable reign.  The loss of her father could not be to Elizabeth what the loss of his mother had been to Winthrop.  Mr. Haye had never made himself a part of his daughter’s daily inner life; to her his death could be only the breaking of the old name and tie and associations, which of late years had become far less dear than they used to be.  Yet to Elizabeth, who had nothing else, they were very much; and she looked to the possible loss of them as to a wild and dreary setting adrift upon the sea of life without harbour or shore to make anywhere.  And then rose the shadowy image of a fair port and land of safety, which conscience whispered she could gain if she would.  But sailing was necessary for that; and chart-studying; and watchful care of the ship, and many an observation taken by heavenly lights; and Elizabeth had not even begun to be a sailor.  She turned these things over and over in her mind a hundred times, one after another, like the visions of a dream, while the hours of the day stole away noiselessly.

The afternoon waned; the doctor came.  Elizabeth sprang out to meet him, referred him to her coadjutor up stairs, and then waited for his coming down again.  But the doctor when he came could tell her nothing; there was no declarative symptom as yet; he knew no more than she did; she must wait.  She went back to her sofa and her musing.