“Ill?” said Alice; “he is not very ill--he takes a great deal of exercise. You must have observed that; and his appetite is very good.” The question roused her to contradict her own fears, and doing so out loud to another was more effectual somehow than anything she could say to herself. “The storm which made everybody else so ill had no effect upon Arthur,” she went on, almost with a little irritation. “He is thin to be sure, but then many people are thin who are quite well; and I am sure you do not look very strong yourself.” “No,” said Colin, who possessed the instinct rare among men of divining what his companion wished him to say; “my people had given me up a few weeks ago. I gave myself a poke somewhere in the lungs which very nearly made an end of me; but I mean to get better if I can,” he said, with a smile, which for the moment brought a doubtful look upon the girl’s face. “You don’t think it wrong to talk like that,” she said; “that was what made me wish so much you should come to see Arthur. Perhaps if he were more cheerful it would do him good. Not that he is very ill, you know, but still--we are going to Italy,” she went on with a little abruptness, “to a place near Rome--not to Rome itself, because I am a little afraid of that--but into the country. Are you going there?” “I suppose so,” said Colin; “it is the most interesting place in the world. Do you not think so? But everything will be new to me.” “If you were to come where we are going,” said his companion with a composure which was wonderful to Colin, “you would find it cheaper, and you could see things almost as easily, and it would not be so hot when summer comes. I think it would do Arthur a great deal of good. It is so hard to know what to do with a man,” she went on, unconsciously yielding to that inexpressible influence of a sympathetic listener which few people can resist; “they cannot occupy themselves, you know, as we women can, and they get tired of _our_ society. I have so longed to find some man who would understand him, and whom he could talk to,” cried the poor girl, with tears in her eyes. She made a pause when she had said so much--not that it occurred to her that any one could misunderstand her, but because the tears were getting into her voice, which was a weakness not to be yielded to. “I don’t know why I should cry,” she added a minute after, with a faint smile; “it is talking about Italy I suppose; but you will like it when you get there.” “Yet you do not seem to like it,” said Colin, with a little curiosity. This time she made him no direct answer. Her eyes were following her brother and Lauderdale as they walked about the deck. “Is _he_ nice?” she asked, with a little timidity, pointing at Lauderdale, and giving another hasty wistful look at Colin’s face.