“Oh, do not alarm yourself.  It is nothing serious.”

“Don’t tell me!” said the father.  “It is always serious.  And she kept this from me!”

Masking his agitation for the time, he inquired how often it had occurred, this grave symptom.

“Three or four times this last month.  But I may as well tell you at once:  I have examined her carefully, and I do not think it is from the lungs.”

“From the throat, then?”

“No; from the liver.  Everything points to that organ as the seat of derangement:  not that there is any lesion; only a tendency to congestion.  I am treating her accordingly, and have no doubt of the result.”

“Who is the ablest physician hereabouts?” asked Lusignan, abruptly.

“Dr. Snell, I think.”

“Give me his address.”

“I’ll write to him, if you like, and appoint a consultation.”  He added, with vast but rather sudden alacrity, “It will be a great satisfaction to my own mind.”

“Then send to him, if you please, and let him be here to-morrow morning; if not, I shall take her to London for advice at once.”

On this understanding they parted, and Lusignan went at once to his daughter.  “O my child!” said he, deeply distressed, “how could you hide this from me?”

“Hide what, papa?” said the girl, looking the picture of unconsciousness.

“That you have been spitting blood.”

“Who told you that?” said she, sharply.

“Wyman.  He is attending you.”

Rosa colored with anger.  “Chatterbox!  He promised me faithfully not to.”

“But why, in Heaven’s name?  What! would you trust this terrible thing to a stranger, and hide it from your poor father?”

“Yes,” replied Rosa, quietly.

The old man would not scold her now; he only said, sadly, “I see how it is:  because I will not let you marry poverty, you think I do not love you.”  And he sighed.

“O papa! the idea!” said Rosa.  “Of course, I know you love me.  It was not that, you dear, darling, foolish papa.  There! if you must know, it was because I did not want you to be distressed.  I thought I might get better with a little physic; and, if not, why, then I thought, ’Papa is an old man; la!  I dare say I shall last his time;’ and so, why should I poison your latter days with worrying about me?”

Mr. Lusignan stared at her, and his lip quivered; but he thought the trait hardly consistent with her superficial character.  He could not help saying, half sadly, half bitterly, “Well, but of course you have told Dr. Staines.”

Rosa opened her beautiful eyes, like two suns.  “Of course I have done nothing of the sort.  He has enough to trouble him, without that.  Poor fellow! there he is, worrying and striving to make his fortune, and gain your esteem—­’they go together,’ you know; you told him so.” (Young cats will scratch when least expected.) “And for me to go and tell him I am in danger!  Why, he would go wild.  He would think of nothing but me and my health.  He would never make his fortune:  and so then, even when I am gone, he will never get a wife, because he has only got genius and goodness and three thousand pounds.  No, papa, I have not told poor Christopher.  I may tease those I love.  I have been teasing you this ever so long; but frighten them, and make them miserable?  No!”