But one day, calling suddenly on a neighbor with six daughters, he heard peals of laughter, and found Rosa taking her full share of the senseless mirth.  She pulled up short at sight of him, and colored high; but it was too late, for he launched a knowing look at her on the spot, and muttered something about seven foolish virgins.

He took the first opportunity, when they were alone, and told her he was glad to find she was only dismal at home.

But Rosa had prepared for him.  “One can be loud without being gay at heart,” said she, with a lofty, languid air.  “I have not forgotten your last words to him.  We were to hide our broken hearts from the world.  I try to obey you, dear papa; but, if I had my way, I would never go into the world at all.  I have but one desire now—­to end my days in a convent.”

“Please begin them first.  A convent!  Why, you’d turn it out of window.  You are no more fit to be a nun than—­a pauper.”

Not having foreseen this facer, Rosa had nothing ready; so she received it with a sad, submissive, helpless sigh, as who would say, “Hit me, papa:  I have no friend now.”  So then he was sorry he had been so clever; and, indeed, there is one provoking thing about “a woman’s weakness”—­it is invincible.

The next minute, what should come but a long letter from Dr. Staines, detailing his endeavors to purchase a practice in London, and his ill-success.  The letter spoke the language of love and hope; but the facts were discouraging; and, indeed, a touching sadness pierced through the veil of the brave words.

Rosa read it again and again, and cried over it before her father, to encourage him in his heartless behavior.

About ten days after this, something occurred that altered her mood.

She became grave and thoughtful, but no longer lugubrious.  She seemed desirous to atone to her father for having disturbed his cheerfulness.  She smiled affectionately on him, and often sat on a stool at his knee, and glided her hand into his.

He was not a little pleased, and said to himself, “She is coming round to common-sense.”

Now, on the contrary, she was farther from it than ever.

At last he got the clew.  One afternoon he met Mr. Wyman coming out of the villa.  Mr. Wyman was the consulting surgeon of that part.

“What! anybody ill?” said Mr. Lusignan.  “One of the servants?”

“No; it is Miss Lusignan.”

“Why, what is the matter with her?”

Wyman hesitated.  “Oh, nothing very alarming.  Would you mind asking her?”

“Why?”

“The fact is, she requested me not to tell you:  made me promise.”

“And I insist upon your telling me.”

“And I think you are quite right, sir, as her father.  Well, she is troubled with a little spitting of blood.”

Mr. Lusignan turned pale.  “My child! spitting of blood!  God forbid!”