One morning, dear Isola runs upstairs, out of breath as usual; but, what is most unusual, actually frowning. Has Cora tyrannised, or what? Through the very shade of her frown, comes her sunny smile, as she kisses me. "Oh, I am so vexed. I have brought him to the door; and now he won’t come in!" "Who, my darling?" "Why, Conny, to be sure. My brother Conrad. I had set my heart on showing him to you, directly you could see." "Why won’t he come in?" "Because he thinks that you ought not to see strangers, until you are quite well. He has not got to the corner yet. I can run like a deer. Send word by me, that you are dying to see him." "Not quite that. But say how glad I shall be." "I’ll say that you won’t get well till you do." "Say what you like. He will know it’s only your nonsense." Off she darts; she is quick as light in her movements, and soon returns with her brother. I lift my weak eyes to his bright ones, and recognise at once the preserver of my mother and myself. But I see, in a moment, that he has not the faintest remembrance of me. My whole face is altered by my accident, and even my voice affected by the long confinement. When he met me in the wood, he seemed very anxious not to look at me; when he saved my life from the rushing mountain, he had little opportunity. Very likely he would not have known me, under another name; even without this illness. So let it be. I will not reveal myself. I thanked him once, and he repulsed me; no doubt he had a reason, for I see that he is a gentleman. Let that reason hold good: I will not trespass on it. He took my hand with a smile, the counterpart of Isola’s. He had heard of me so constantly, that I must excuse the liberty. A dear friend of his sister’s could be no stranger to him. A thrill shot through me at the touch of his hand, and my eyes were weak. He saw it, and placed a chair for me further from the light. On his own face, not the sun, for the "drawing-room" windows look north, but the strong reflection of the noon-day light was falling. How like he is to Isola, and yet how different! So much stronger, and bolder, and more decided, so tall and firm of step. His countenance open as the noon, incapable of concealment; yet if he be the same (and, how can I doubt it?), then at least there seemed to be some mystery about him. Isola, with the quickness of a girl, saw how intently I observed him, and could not hide her delight. "There now, Clara dear, I knew you would like him. But you must not look at him so much, or your poor eyes will be sore." Little stupid! As I felt my pale cheeks colouring, I could almost have been angry, even with my Isola. But she meant no harm. In spite of lectures and "college," she was gentle nature personified; and no Professors could make anything else of her. All these things run in the grain. If there is anything I hate, I am sure I hate affectation. But there is a difference between us.