In the meantime rumour was busy, and it said, starting from the gossip among the servants of the household, that the fire had not been an accident. The place was not insured, so there was no official investigation into its origin. But gossip spoke of the smell of paraffin, and the story was soon current that Mr. Richard had conceived a hopeless passion for Miss Abercarne, that he had set fire to the place in order to effect his escape, and that he had then committed suicide by throwing himself into the sea. Chris knew nothing of all this. She lay for many days unconscious, hanging at one time between life and death. Mr. Bradfield’s despair at any apparent change for the worse in her condition was quite as great as that of her own mother. His haggard face, his anxious eyes, the change from brusque abruptness to an almost timorous vacillation in his manner, excited the comment of the entire neighbourhood. Some put the change in him down to anxiety as to the fate of his ward, of whom no inquiries could find a trace; some to his despair on the young lady’s account. When Chris began to get better, her mother’s anxieties about the girl were as deep as ever. For the melancholy in the girl’s eyes was touching in the extreme; a shadow seemed to have been cast upon her whole nature. Her frivolity had gone, but it seemed to have taken the freshness of her youth with it. Mrs. Abercarne longed for, at the same time that she dreaded, an explanation. It came one day when Chris had been carried, for the first time, into the Chinese-room, and laid upon the sofa. Mrs. Abercarne was watching her daughter anxiously, when Chris said: “Mother, has anything been found out--about the fire?” Mrs. Abercarne flushed slightly; she had heard a good many rumours, but had shut her ears as much as possible. “Found out!” she echoed, as if surprised by the question. “Why, no, of course not.” “I mean--doesn’t anybody think it strange?” “That there should be a fire? No. It is always dangerous to use lamps. And Mr. Richard, poor young man, was evidently not to be trusted with one.” Chris moved impatiently. But she only asked: “Do they think he was burnt alive, then?” Mrs. Abercarne hesitated. She wished with all her heart, poor dear lady, that she could honestly say “yes.” But truth (and the certainty that she would be found out if she told a falsehood) prevailed. “It is impossible to say,” she answered, shortly. “But--but I believe they did not succeed in finding any traces of the body.” “Ah!” said Chris, as if this had been just what she expected. She asked no more questions, but sat for a long time looking thoughtfully out at the sea. At last her mother ventured to say: “Mr. Bradfield wants to know, my darling, what flowers you would like best for him to send you. He is very anxious for the time to come when he may see you, though he does not wish to intrude too soon.”