Rosa Lusignan got worse and worse. The slight but frequent hemorrhage was a drain upon her system, and weakened her visibly. She began to lose her rich complexion, and sometimes looked almost sallow; and a slight circle showed itself under her eyes. These symptoms were unfavorable; nevertheless, Dr. Snell and Mr. Wyman accepted them cheerfully, as fresh indications that nothing was affected but the liver; they multiplied and varied their prescriptions; the malady ignored those prescriptions, and went steadily on. Mr. Lusignan was terrified but helpless. Rosa resigned and reticent. But it was not in human nature that a girl of this age could always and at all hours be mistress of herself. One evening in particular she stood before the glass in the drawing-room, and looked at herself a long time with horror. “Is that Rosa Lusignan?” said she, aloud; “it is her ghost.” A deep groan startled her. She turned; it was her father. She thought he was fast asleep; and so indeed he had been; but he was just awaking, and heard his daughter utter her real mind. It was a thunder-clap. “Oh, my child! what shall I do?” he cried. Then Rosa was taken by surprise in her turn. She spoke out. “Send for a great physician, papa. Don't let us deceive ourselves; it is our only chance.” “I will ask Mr. Wyman to get a physician down from London.” “No, no; that is no use; they will put their heads together, and he will say whatever Mr. Wyman tells him. La! papa, a clever man like you, not to see what a cheat that consultation was. Why, from what you told me, one can see it was managed so that Dr. Snell could not possibly have an opinion of his own. No; no more echoes of Mr. Chatterbox. If you really want to cure me, send for Christopher Staines.” “Dr. Staines! he is very young.” “But he is very clever, and he is not an echo. He won't care how many doctors he contradicts when I am in danger. Papa, it is your child's one chance.” “I'll try it,” said the old man, eagerly. “How confident you look! your color has come back. It is an inspiration. Where is he?” “I think by this time he must be at his lodgings in Gravesend. Send to him to-morrow morning.” “Not I! I'll go to him to-night. It is only a mile, and a fine clear night.” “My own, good, kind papa! Ah! well, come what may, I have lived long enough to be loved. Yes, dear papa, save me. I am very young to die; and he loves me so dearly.” The old man bustled away to put on something warmer for his night walk, and Rosa leaned back, and the tears welled out of her eyes, now he was gone. Before she had recovered her composure, a letter was brought her, and this was the letter from Christopher Staines, alluded to already. She took it from the servant with averted head, not wishing it to be seen she had been crying, and she started at the handwriting; it seemed such a coincidence that it should come just as she was sending for him.