She was afraid to do anything for fear of making matters worse. She went to the window, and stood looking anxiously out, with her hands working. Presently she uttered a little scream and shrank away to the sofa. She sank down on it, half sitting, half lying, hid her face in her hands, and waited. Staines, with a lover's impatience, had been more than an hour at the gate, or walking up and down close by it, his heart now burning with hope, now freezing with fear, that she would decline a meeting on these terms. At last the postman came, and then he saw he was too soon; but now in a few minutes Rosa would have his letter, and then he should soon know whether she would come or not. He looked up at the drawing-room windows. They were full of light. She was there in all probability. Yet she did not come to them. But why should she, if she was coming out? He walked up and down the road. She did not come. His heart began to sicken with doubt. His head drooped; and perhaps it was owing to this that he almost ran against a gentleman who was coming the other way. The moon shone bright on both faces. “Dr. Staines!” said Mr. Lusignan surprised. Christopher uttered an ejaculation more eloquent than words. They stared at each other. “You were coming to call on us?” “N--no,” stammered Christopher. Lusignan thought that odd; however, he said politely, “No matter, it is fortunate. Would you mind coming in?” “No,” faltered Christopher, and stared at him ruefully, puzzled more and more, but beginning to think, after all, it might be a casual meeting. They entered the gate, and in one moment he saw Rosa at the window, and she saw him. Then he altered his opinion again. Rosa had sent her father out to him. But how was this? The old man did not seem angry. Christopher's heart gave a leap inside him, and he began to glow with the wildest hopes. For, what could this mean but relenting? Mr. Lusignan took him first into the study, and lighted two candles himself. He did not want the servants prying. The lights showed Christopher a change in Mr. Lusignan. He looked ten years older. “You are not well, sir,” said Christopher gently. “My health is well enough, but I am a broken-hearted man. Dr. Staines, forget all that passed here at your last visit. All that is over. Thank you for loving my poor girl as you do; give me your hand; God bless you. Sir, I am sorry to say it is as a physician I invite you now. She is ill, sir, very, very ill.” “Ill! and not tell me!” “She kept it from you, my poor friend, not to distress you; and she tried to keep it from me, but how could she? For two months she has had some terrible complaint--it is destroying her. She is the ghost of herself. Oh, my poor child! my child!”