Miss Gale approved the resolution. Next day Vizard posted his keepers, and sent his advertisements to the London and country journals. Fanny came into his study to tell him there was more trouble--Miss Maitland taken seriously ill, and had written to Zoe. “Poor old soul!” said Vizard. “I have a great mind to ride over and see her.” “Somebody ought to go,” said Fanny. “Well, you go.” “How can I--with Zoe, and Mademoiselle Klosking, and you, to look after?” “Instead of one old woman. Not much excitement in that.” “No, cousin. To think of your remembering! Why, you must have gone to bed sober.” “I often do.” “You were always an eccentric landowner.” “Don't you talk. You are a caricature.” This banter was interrupted by Miss Gale, who came to tell Harrington Mademoiselle Klosking desired to see him, at his leisure. He said he would come directly. “Before you go,” said Miss Gale, “let us come to an understanding. She had only two days' fever; but that fever, and the loss of blood, and the shock to her nerves, brought her to death's door by exhaustion. Now she is slowly recovering her strength, because she has a healthy stomach, and I give her no stimulants to spur and then weaken her, but choice and simple esculents, the effect of which I watch, and vary them accordingly. But the convalescent period is always one of danger, especially from chills to the body, and excitements to the brain. At no period are more patients thrown away for want of vigilance. Now I can guard against chills and other bodily things, but not against excitements--unless you co-operate. The fact is, we must agree to avoid speaking about Mr. Severne. We must be on our guard. We must parry; we must evade; we must be deaf, stupid, slippery; but no Severne--for five or six days more, at all events.” Thus forewarned, Vizard, in due course, paid his second visit to Ina Klosking. He found her propped up with pillows this time. She begged him to be seated. She had evidently something on her mind, and her nurses watched her like cats. “You are fond of music, sir?” “Not of all music. I adore good music, I hate bad, and I despise mediocre. Silence is golden, indeed, compared with poor music.” “You are right, sir. Have you good music in the house?” “A little. I get all the operas, and you know there are generally one or two good things in an opera--among the rubbish. But the great bulk of our collection is rather old-fashioned. It is sacred music--oratorios, masses, anthems, services, chants. My mother was the collector. Her tastes were good, but narrow. Do you care for that sort of music?” “Sacred music? Why, it is, of all music, the most divine, and soothes the troubled soul. Can I not see the books? I read music like words. By reading I almost hear.” “We will bring you up a dozen books to begin on.”