He went down directly; and such was his pleasure in doing anything for the Klosking that he executed the order in person, brought up a little pile of folios and quartos, beautifully bound and lettered, a lady having been the collector. Now, as he mounted the stairs, with his very chin upon the pile, who should he see looking over the rails at him but his sister Zoe. She was sadly changed. There was a fixed ashen pallor on her cheek, and a dark circle under her eyes. He stopped to look at her. “My poor child,” said he, “you look very ill.” “I am very ill, dear.” “Would you not be better for a change?” “I might.” “Why coop yourself up in your own room? Why deny yourself a brother's sympathy?” The girl trembled, and tears came to her eyes. “Is it with me you sympathize?” said she. “Can you doubt it, Zoe?” Zoe hung her head a moment, and did not reply. Then she made a diversion. “What are those books? Oh, I see--your mother's music-books. Nothing is too good for _her.”_ “Nothing in the way of music-books is too good for her. For shame! are you jealous of that unfortunate lady?” Zoe made no reply. She put her hands before her face, that Vizard might not see her mind. Then he rested his books on a table, and came and took her head in his hands paternally. “Do not shut yourself up any longer. Solitude is dangerous to the afflicted. Be more with me than ever, and let this cruel blow bind us more closely, instead of disuniting us.” He kissed her lovingly, and his kind words set her tears flowing; but they did her little good--they were bitter tears. Between her and her brother there was now a barrier sisterly love could not pass. He hated and despised Edward Severne; and she only distrusted him, and feared he was a villain. She loved him still with every fiber of her heart, and pined for his explanation of all that seemed so dark. So then he entered the sick-room with his music-books; and Zoe, after watching him in without seeming to do so, crept away to her own room. Then there was rather a pretty little scene. Miss Gale and Miss Dover, on each side of the bed, held a heavy music-book, and Mademoiselle Klosking turned the leaves and read, when the composition was worth reading. If it was not, she quietly passed it over, without any injurious comment. Vizard watched her from the foot of the bed, and could tell in a moment, by her face, whether the composition was good, bad, or indifferent. When bad, her face seemed to turn impassive, like marble; when good, to expand; and when she lighted on a masterpiece, she was almost transfigured, and her face shone with elevated joy. This was a study to the enamored Vizard, and it did not escape the quick-sighted doctress. She despised music on its own merits, but she despised nothing that could be pressed into the service of medicine; and she said to herself, “I'll cure her with esculents and music.” The book was taken away to make room for another.