Frank Raynor lapsed into a review of the past. Of the admiration he had undoubtedly given to Rosaline Bell at Trennach; of the solicitude he had evinced for her (or, rather, for her mother) since their stay in London. Of his constant visits to them: visits paid every three or four days at first; later, daily or twice a day--for poor Mrs. Bell was now near her end. Yes, he did see, looking at the years carefully and dispassionately, that Daisy (her suspicions having been, as she had now confessed, first aroused by the waiting-maid Tabitha) might have fancied she saw sufficient grounds for jealousy. She could not know that his friendship and solicitude for the Bells proceeded from a widely different cause. That clue would never, as he believed, be furnished to her so long as she should live. "What a blessing it would be if some people were born dumb!" concluded Frank, thinking of Tabitha Float. The slight symptoms of improvement continued; and at sunset Frank Raynor knew that his wife's condition would bear the carrying out of an idea he had formed. It was yet daylight outside, though the drawn curtains made the room dark, when Daisy was conscious of a sad, beautiful face bending over her, and an entreating voice whose gentle tones told of sadness. "Don't shrink from me, Mrs. Frank Raynor," whispered Rosaline--for she it was. "I have come to strive to put straight what I hear has been so long crooked." And the few words she spoke, spoke earnestly and solemnly, brought peace to the unhappy wife's heart. Daisy was too ill to feel much self-reproach then, but it was with some shame she learnt how mistaken she had been. "Oh, believe me!" concluded Rosaline, "I have never had a wrong thought of Mr. Frank Raynor; nor he one of me. Had we been brother and sister, our intercourse with each other could not have been more open and simple." "He--he liked you at Trennach, and you liked him," murmured poor Daisy, almost convinced, but repentant and tearful. "People talked about it." "He liked me as an acquaintance, nothing more," sighed Rosaline, passing over all mention of her own early feelings. "He was fond of talking and laughing with me, and I would talk and laugh back again. I was light-hearted then. But never, I solemnly declare it, did a word of love pass between us. And, in the midst of it, there fell upon me and my mother the terrible grief of my father's unhappy death. I have never laughed since then." "I have been thinking these past two years that he went to West Street only to see you," sobbed Daisy. Rosaline shook her head. "He has come entirely for my mother. Without fee, for he will not take it, he has been unremittingly kind and attentive, and has soothed her pains on the way to death. God bless him for it! A few days, and I shall never see him again in this world. But I shall not forget what he has done for us; and God will not forget it either." "_You_ are not going to die, are you?" cried poor puzzled Daisy.