so happy and had talked so cheerfully as to recall the first days of her acquaintance with him, and turned heroically to taking her share of the nursing, or to doing what she could towards leaving her godmother free to devote herself to the invalid. “What an ungrateful wretch I am!” she said to herself. “A week ago it would have seemed to me the very height of happiness merely to know that Carlino was alive, and yet now that he is in the same house, and I see him every day, I am not content. Can it be that I am jealous of poor Lord Cyril? It sounds dreadful, and yet, when I see that Carlino is always thinking about him, and never speaks to me unless he is obliged, it makes me miserable. And I ought to be glad to be able to do anything for Lord Cyril, and so I am,--only I am glad that I forgave him before I knew how hard it would be.” Another thing that made the time she spent in nursing Cyril more than ordinarily hard for Nadia was the fact that her presence always seemed to exert on the patient an influence the reverse of soothing. Whether it was that her anxious, painstaking ways irritated him, or that his conscience pricked him with regard to her, did not appear, but his fevered eyes followed her persistently about the room, and seemed to be addressing some entreaty to her. The doctor noticed it at last. “He has something on his mind,” he said to Caerleon. “Has anything occurred to trouble him, do you know?” “Nothing but our leaving Thracia, so far as I am aware.” “He did not leave any young lady behind him there, of whom Miss O’Malachy may remind him, did he?” “Oh no. He’s not that sort of fellow at all,” responded Caerleon, with absolute assurance. But no other suggestion presented itself to his mind, and he found himself puzzling continually over the uneasiness Cyril showed in Nadia’s presence. Could it be that for some reason she was vaguely connected in his mind with her brother? Nadia herself could offer no explanation but this, and the discovery of the real cause of Cyril’s aversion to her surprised her almost as much as it did Caerleon. She was left in charge of the patient one day, while Caerleon ate his lunch in the dressing-room, and he was astonished after a time to hear the sounds of an altercation from the sick-room,--if that could be called an altercation in which all the speaking was on one side. “Is he delirious?” he asked, opening the door slightly. “Can I help you?” “Oh, do go away,” said Nadia, her face flushed and angry. “No, it’s too late; he has heard your voice. I think he must be delirious.” “But what is it? Does he want anything?” “He wants me to tell you something, and I won’t. There is no reason why I should, and it can’t do any good.” “But how do you know that is what is troubling him?” “It struck me suddenly that he wanted something, and I asked him all the things I could think of, until it flashed upon me that it was this, and I have told him I can’t do it, and he won’t be satisfied.”