“What is it?  Ah! one of the Invalid’s essays.  They strike every one; but I fancy the authorship is a great secret.”

“You do not know it?”

“No, I wish I did.  Which of them are you reading?  ‘Country Walks.’  That is not one that I care about, it is a mere hash of old recollections; but there are some very sensible and superior ones, so that I have heard it sometimes doubted whether they are man’s or woman’s writing.  For my part, I think them too earnest to be a man’s; men always play with their subject.”

“Oh, yes,” said Fanny, “I am sure only a lady could have written anything so sweet as that about flowers in a sick-room; it so put me in mind of the lovely flowers you used to bring me one at a time, when I was ill at Cape Town.”

There was no more sense to be had after those three once fell upon their reminiscences.

That night, after having betrayed her wakefulness by a movement in her bed, Alison Williams heard her sister’s voice, low and steady, saying, “Ailie, dear, be it what it may, guessing is worse than certainty.”

“Oh, Ermine, I hoped—­I know nothing—­I have nothing to tell.”

“You dread something,” said Ermine; “you have been striving for unconcern all the evening, my poor dear, but surely you know, Ailie, that nothing is so bad while we share it.”

“And I have frightened you about nothing.”

“Nothing! nothing about Edward?”

“Oh, no, no!”

“And no one has made you uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Then there is only one thing that it can be, Ailie, and you need not fear to tell me that.  I always knew that if he lived I must be prepared for it, and you would not have hesitated to tell me of his death.”

“It is not that, indeed it is not, Ermine, it is only this—­that I found to-day that Lady Temple’s major has the same name.”

“But you said she was come home.  You must have seen him.”

“Yes, but I should not know him.  I had only seen him once, remember, twelve years ago, and when I durst not look at him.”

“At least,” said Ermine, quickly, “you can tell me what you saw to-day.”

“A Scotch face, bald head, dark beard, grizzled hair.”

“Yes I am grey, and he was five years older; but he used not to have a Scotch face.  Can you tell me about his eyes?”

“Dark,” I think.

“They were very dark blue, almost black.  Time and climate must have left them alone.  You may know him by those eyes, Ailie.  And you could not make out anything about him?”

“No, not even his Christian name nor his regiment.  I had only the little ones and Miss Rachel to ask, and they knew nothing.  I wanted to keep this from you till I was sure, but you always find me out.”

“Do you think I couldn’t see the misery you were in all the evening, poor child?  But now you have had it out, sleep, and don’t be distressed.”