“But can he be spared for so long?”

“Oh, yes; he had better stay at the little inn there, to be on the spot.  Three days,” and as she spoke, she ran out to the gardener, who was sweeping up the newly-mown grass in the front of the house.  She gave him hasty and unlimited directions, only seeming intent—­if any one had been suspiciously watching her words and actions—­to hurry him off to the distant village, where the auction was to take place.

When he was once gone she breathed more freely.  Now, no one but the three cognisant of the terrible reason of the disturbance of the turf under the trees in a certain spot in the belt round the flower-garden, would be likely to go into the place.  Miss Monro might wander round with a book in her hand; but she never noticed anything, and was short-sighted into the bargain.  Three days of this moist, warm, growing weather, and the green grass would spring, just as if life—­was what it had been twenty-four hours before.

When all this was done and said, it seemed as if Ellinor’s strength and spirit sank down at once.  Her voice became feeble, her aspect wan; and although she told Miss Monro that nothing was the matter, yet it was impossible for any one who loved her not to perceive that she was far from well.  The kind governess placed her pupil on the sofa, covered her feet up warmly, darkened the room, and then stole out on tiptoe, fancying that Ellinor would sleep.  Her eyes were, indeed, shut; but try as much as she would to be quiet, she was up in less than five minutes after Miss Monro had left the room, and walking up and down in all the restless agony of body that arises from an overstrained mind.  But soon Miss Monro reappeared, bringing with her a dose of soothing medicine of her own concocting, for she was great in domestic quackery.  What the medicine was Ellinor did not care to know; she drank it without any sign of her usual merry resistance to physic of Miss Monro’s ordering; and as the latter took up a book, and showed a set purpose of remaining with her patient, Ellinor was compelled to lie still, and presently fell asleep.

She awakened late in the afternoon with a start.  Her father was standing over her, listening to Miss Monro’s account of her indisposition.  She only caught one glimpse of his strangely altered countenance, and hid her head in the cushions—­hid it from memory, not from him.  For in an instant she must have conjectured the interpretation he was likely to put upon her shrinking action, and she had turned towards him, and had thrown her arms round his neck, and was kissing his cold, passive face.  Then she fell back.  But all this time their sad eyes never met—­they dreaded the look of recollection that must be in each other’s gaze.

“There, my dear!” said Miss Monro.  “Now you must lie still till I fetch you a little broth.  You are better now, are not you?”