“Oh, that is so like papa.  He is director of an insurance company, so all the world must insure their lives.”

“No, dear, he was quite right there:  professional incomes are most precarious.  Death spares neither young nor old, neither warm hearts nor cold.  I should be no true physician if I could not see my own mortality.”  He hung his head and pondered a moment, then went on, sadly, “It all comes to this—­until I have a professional income of eight hundred a year at least, he will not hear of our marrying; and the cruel thing is, he will not even consent to an engagement.  But,” said the rejected, with a look of sad anxiety, “you will wait for me without that, dear Rosa?”

She could give him that comfort, and she gave it him with loving earnestness.  “Of course I will; and it shall not be very long.  Whilst you are making your fortune, to please papa, I will keep fretting, and pouting, and crying, till he sends for you.”

“Bless you, dearest!  Stop!—­not to make yourself ill! not for all the world.”  The lover and the physician spoke in turn.

He came, all gratitude, to her side, and they sat, hand in hand, comforting each other:  indeed, parting was such sweet sorrow that they sat, handed, and very close to one another, till Mr. Lusignan, who thought five minutes quite enough for rational beings to take leave in, walked into the room and surprised them.  At sight of his gray head and iron-gray eyebrows, Christopher Staines started up and looked confused; he thought some apology necessary, so he faltered out, “Forgive me, sir; it is a bitter parting to me, you may be sure.”

Rosa’s bosom heaved at these simple words.  She flew to her father, and cried, “Oh, papa! papa! you were never cruel before;” and hid her burning face on his shoulder; and then burst out crying, partly for Christopher, partly because she was now ashamed of herself for having taken a young man’s part so openly.

Mr. Lusignan looked sadly discomposed at this outburst:  she had taken him by his weak point; he told her so.  “Now, Rosa,” said he, rather peevishly, “you know I hate—­noise.”

Rosa had actually forgotten that trait for a single moment; but, being reminded of it, she reduced her sobs in the prettiest way, not to offend a tender parent who could not bear noise.  Under this homely term, you must know, he included all scenes, disturbances, rumpuses, passions; and expected all men, women, and things in Kent Villa to go smoothly—­or go elsewhere.

“Come, young people,” said he, “don’t make a disturbance.  Where’s the grievance?  Have I said he shall never marry you?  Have I forbidden him to correspond? or even to call, say twice a year.  All I say is, no marriage, nor contract of marriage, until there is an income.”  Then he turned to Christopher.  “Now if you can’t make an income without her, how could you make one with her, weighed down by the load of expenses a wife entails?  I know her better than you do; she is