“To be sure.  I forgot that.”

She said no more; but seemed thoughtful, and not quite satisfied.

On this Dr. Philip begged the maids to go near her as little as possible.  “You are not aware of it,” said he, “but your looks, and your manner of speaking, rouse her attention, and she is quicker than I thought she was, and observes very subtly.”

This was done; and then she complained that nobody came near her.  She insisted on coming down-stairs; it was so dull.

Dr. Philip consented, if she would be content to receive no visits for a week.

She assented to that; and now passed some hours every day in the drawing-room.  In her morning wrappers, so fresh and crisp, she looked lovely, and increased in health and strength every day.

Dr. Philip used to look at her, and his very flesh would creep at the thought that, ere long, he must hurl this fair creature into the dust of affliction; must, with a word, take the ruby from her lips, the rose from her cheeks, the sparkle from her glorious eyes—­eyes that beamed on him with sweet affection, and a mouth that never opened, but to show some simplicity of mind, or some pretty burst of the sensitive heart.

He put off, and put off, and at last cowardice began to whisper, “Why tell her the whole truth at all?  Why not take her through stages of doubt, alarm, and, after all, leave a grain of hope till her child gets so rooted in her heart that”—­But conscience and good sense interrupted this temporary thought, and made him see to what a horrible life of suspense he should condemn a human creature, and live a perpetual lie, and be always at the edge of some pitfall or other.

One day, while he sat looking at her, with all these thoughts, and many more, coursing through his mind, she looked up at him, and surprised him.  “Ah!” said she gravely.

“What is the matter, my dear?”

“Oh, nothing,” said she cunningly.

“Uncle, dear,” said she presently, “when do we go to Herne Bay?”

Now, Dr. Philip had given that up.  He had got the servants at Kent Villa on his side, and he felt safer here than in any strange place:  so he said, “I don’t know:  that all depends.  There is plenty of time.”

“No, uncle,” said Rosa gravely.  “I wish to leave this house.  I can hardly breathe in it.”

“What! your native air?”

“Mystery is not my native air; and this house is full of mystery.  Voices whisper at my door, and the people don’t come in.  The maids cast strange looks at me, and hurry away.  I scolded that pert girl Jane, and she answered me as meek as Moses.  I catch you looking at me, with love, and something else.  What is that something—?  It is Pity:  that is what it is.  Do you think, because I am called a simpleton, that I have no eyes, nor ears, nor sense?  What is this secret which you are all hiding from one person, and that is me?  Ah!  Christopher has not written these five weeks.  Tell me the truth, for I will know it,” and she started up in wild excitement.