“There, papa!  That will do, Harriet.”

Harriet retired as far as the keyhole; she saw something was up.

“Now,” said Rosa, “you see I was right; and, after all, it was a match you did not approve.  Well, it is all over, and now you may write to your favorite, Colonel Bright.  If he comes here, I’ll box his old ears.  I hate him.  I hate them all.  Forgive your wayward girl.  I’ll stay with you all my days.  I dare say that will not be long, now I have quarrelled with my guardian angel; and all for what?  Papa! papa! how can you sit there and not speak me one word of comfort?  ‘Simpleton?’ Ah! that I am to throw away a love a queen is scarcely worthy of; and all for what?  Really, if it wasn’t for the ingratitude and wickedness of the thing, it is too laughable.  Ha! ha!—­oh! oh! oh!—­ha! ha! ha!”

And off she went into hysterics, and began to gulp and choke frightfully.

Her father cried for help in dismay.  In ran Harriet, saw, and screamed, but did not lose her head; this veracious person whipped a pair of scissors off the table, and cut the young lady’s stay-laces directly.  Then there was a burst of imprisoned beauty; a deep, deep sigh of relief came from a bosom that would have done honor to Diana; and the scene soon concluded with fits of harmless weeping, renewed at intervals.

When it had settled down to this, her father, to soothe her, said he would write to Dr. Staines, and bring about a reconciliation, if she liked.

“No,” said she, “you shall kill me sooner.  I should die of shame.”

She added, “Oh, pray, from this hour, never mention his name to me.”

And then she had another cry.

Mr. Lusignan was a sensible man:  he dropped the subject for the present; but he made up his mind to one thing—­that he would never part with Dr. Staines as a physician.

Next day Rosa kept her own room until dinner-time, and was as unhappy as she deserved to be.  She spent her time in sewing on stiff flannel linings and crying.  She half hoped Christopher would write to her, so that she might write back that she forgave him.  But not a line.

At half-past six her volatile mind took a turn, real or affected.  She would cry no more for an ungrateful fellow,—­ungrateful for not seeing through the stone walls how she had been employed all the morning; and making it up.  So she bathed her red eyes, made a great alteration in her dress, and came dancing into the room humming an Italian ditty.

As they were sitting together in the dining-room after dinner, two letters came by the same post to Mr. Lusignan from Mr. Wyman and Dr. Snell.

Mr. Wyman’s letter:—­

Dear sir,—­I am sorry to hear from Miss Lusignan that she intends to discontinue medical advice.  The disorder was progressing favorably, and nothing to be feared, under proper treatment.

Yours, etc.