“Judge Forrest,” Rossie said to him the fifth day after his attack, “you wish to tell me something and you cannot, but perhaps I can guess by mentioning ever so many things. I’ll try, and if you mean no look straight at me as you are looking now; if you mean yes, turn your eyes to the window, or shut them, as you choose. Do you understand me?” There was the shadow of a smile on the wan face, and the heavy eyelids closed, in token that he did comprehend. Rossie knew the judge was dying, that at the most only a few days more were his, and ought not some one to tell him? Was it right to let that fierce, turbulent spirit launch out upon the great sea of eternity unwarned? “Oh, if I was only good, I might help him, perhaps,” she thought; “at any rate he ought to know, and maybe it would make him kinder toward Everard,” for it was of him she meant to speak, through this novel channel of communication between herself and the sick man. She must have the father’s forgiveness with which to comfort the son, and with death staring him in the face he would not withhold it; so she said to him: “You are very sick, Judge Forrest; you know that, don’t you?” The eyes went slowly to the window and back again, while she continued in her plain, outspoken way: “Do you think I ought to tell you if you are going to die?” There was a momentary spasm of terror on the face, a look such as a child has when shrinking from the rod, and then the eyes went to the window and back to Rossie, who said: “We hope for the best, but the case is very bad, and if you do not see Mr. Everard again shall I tell him you forgive him, and were sorry?” Quick as lightning the affirmative answer agreed upon between them was given, and in great delight Rossie exclaimed, “I am so glad, for that is what you have tried so hard to tell me. You wish me to say this to Mr. Everard, and I will. Is that all?” This time the eyes did not move, but looked into hers with such an earnest, beseeching expression, that she knew there was more to come. Question after question followed, but the eyes never left her face, and she could see the pupils dilate and the color deepen in them, as they seemed burning themselves into hers. “What is it? What can it be?” she asked, despairingly. “Does it concern Mr. Everard in any way?” “Yes,” was the eye answer quickly given, and then Rosamond guessed everything she could think of, the possible and impossible, but the bright eyes kept their steady gaze upon her until, thinking of Joe Fleming, she asked, “Is somebody else concerned in it?” “Yes,” was the response, and not willing to introduce Joe too soon, Rossie said: “Is it the servants?” “No.” “Is it Beatrice?” “No.” “Is it I?” She had no thought it was, and was astonished when the eyes went over to the window in token that it was. “Is it something that I can do?” she asked, and the eyes seemed to leap from her face to the window. “And shall I some time know what it is?”