It was a bright January afternoon, but the heat of the day was over, and a sea breeze was springing up. The window was open, and the chintz curtains softly rustling to and fro. There was a magnificent bouquet on a table at the foot of the bed; the air was full of the perfume of roses; a few flies were buzzing over a plate of strawberries set on a chair at Rachel's side. The invalid was lying on a sofa, in a white dressing-gown, in an attitude of extreme languor, asleep. One hand holding a fan had dropped beside her; the other was under her head. Her dark gold hair was loose and tumbled, and curling in damp rings on her temples; her face was flushed and thin; there were hollows and shadows under the tired closed eyes. She looked as if she had been ill for months. Mrs. Reade, examining her attentively as she knelt by the sofa, was deeply shocked and concerned. Never would she have gone away to Adelonga if she could have foreseen this! And never should the poor little thing be harried and worried, as she had evidently been, again, if _she_ had any power to prevent it--no, not though twenty Mr. Kingstons and all their twenty fortunes were at stake. A mosquito settled upon the girl's white arm, and the light brush of the finger that removed it wakened her. She drew a deep breath, and opened her eyes languidly; then seeing her visitor, she stared at her for a second in a dazed and startled way; and then to Mrs. Reade's great embarrassment and distress, she suddenly flung herself into her arms, and broke into the wildest weeping. "Now, Rachel! Now, my dearest child----" But it would have been as hopeless to try and stop the Falls of Niagara as this tide of passion at the flood; seeing which, Mrs. Reade waited for the ebb in silence. By the time it came the girl was completely exhausted; she seemed to have the merest fragment of strength. "Now," said Beatrice, when she had sponged her face and hands and otherwise taken steps to revive and soothe her, "now tell me what all this is about. I know you are in some great trouble, and I have come home on purpose to help you." "No one can help me!" Rachel cried, despairingly, tears rushing afresh into her hot eyes. "Oh, nonsense. Just tell me what is the matter, and see if I can't. Are they trying to make you marry Mr. Kingston? Because I can soon send _him_ about his business." "No; Mr. Kingston is very kind _now_. He sends me flowers every day. He does not worry me. He is very considerate and thoughtful. For I think he--knows." "Well, and now I want to know. Is it about--someone else? Is it about Mr. Dalrymple?" "Who told you?" the girl demanded, with sharp entreaty. "Oh, Beatrice, what have you heard? Did Mrs. Digby tell you anything about him? Is he in Queensland? Is he alive? What is he doing?" Mrs. Reade replied that she had heard nothing of Mr. Dalrymple beyond the fact that he was believed to be in Queensland, and doing well.