Once, when her sad thoughts were saddest, a faint sigh escaped her lips as she bent over her work, in her accustomed seat by one of the windows, remote from the spot affected by Mrs. Jerningham; and, looking up some minutes afterwards, she saw Laurence Desmond’s eyes fixed upon her, with a look that penetrated her heart. Ah, what did it mean, that tender, deeply-mournful look? This inexperienced girl dared not trust her own translation of its meaning. But that sad regard touched her heart with a new feeling. “He thinks of me; he is sorry for me,” she said to herself. More than this she dared not hope; but in her dreams that night, and in her thoughts and dreams of many days and nights to come, the look was destined to haunt her. In the next minute she heard Mrs. Jerningham announce her desire for a game of chess, with the tone of an extremely proper Cleopatra to an unmartial Antony. The weeks and months went by, and Mrs. Jerningham was still a kind and hospitable friend to the helpless girl whom Mr. Desmond had cast upon her compassion. “I am very glad you introduced her to me,” Emily said sometimes to the editor of the _Areopagus_. “She is really a dear little thing; and I am growing quite attached to her.” “Yes, she is a good little girl,” replied Mr. Desmond, in a careless tone. “And as to jealousy,” resumed Emily, “of course that is quite out of the question with such a dear, harmless little creature.” “Of course.” And then Mrs. Jerningham looked at Mr. Desmond, and Mr. Desmond looked at Mrs. Jerningham, with the air of accomplished, swordsmen on guard. Was Mrs. Jerningham jealous of this “dear, harmless little creature”? She watched Miss Lucy very closely when Laurence was present, and had a sharp eye for Laurence when he gave Miss Lucy good-day; but if she had been jealous, she would scarcely have kept Lucy at the villa, where Laurence saw her very often; on the other hand, if Lucy had not been at the villa, Laurence might have seen her even more often, and Mrs. Jerningham could not have been present at their meetings; so there may have been some alloy of self-interest mingled with the pure gold of womanly kindness. The spring ripened into early summer, and the Hampton villa looked its brightest; but neither spring nor summer saw the end of Emily Jerningham’s family cough. She insisted upon making light of the matter, and as, unhappily, those about her were inexperienced in illness, the slight but perpetual cough gave little uneasiness. Before Laurence she made a point of appearing at her best. Excitement gave colour to her cheeks and light to her eyes. The outline of her patrician face was little impaired by some loss of roundness, and her elegant demi-toilettes concealed the fact that she was growing alarmingly thin. Her maid alone knew the extent of the change, which she and the housekeeper discussed, with much solemn foreboding of coming ill.