She had been steadily improving since Rothsay was reached, though she talked but little, and was most of the time so absorbed in thought that she did not always hear when spoken to, or answer if she did. She heard, however, when Everard came, and recognized his step the moment he touched the piazza, and her pale face would light up with sudden joy and her large eyes glow like coals of fire; but since their first interview she had not suffered him to kiss her, or even to hold her hands in his as he sat and talked to her. Josephine living was a bar between them still, and Everard guessed as much, and told her at last that Josephine had died on the very night of her return to Rothsay. She was sitting in her easy-chair, with her head resting upon a pillow, and her little white, thin hands held tightly on her lap, as if afraid of the masculine fingers beating restlessly upon the arm of her chair. But when she heard of Josephine’s death, her hands involuntarily unlocked and crept toward the restless fingers, which caught and held them fast while Everard went on very slowly and cautiously to tell her the rest of the story,—the part which involved her brother, whose name he had not before mentioned to her. At first she listened breathlessly, with parted lips and wide-open eyes, which almost frightened him with their expression of wonder, and surprise, and incredulity. “Everard,—Everard!” she gasped, “you are not telling me the truth? Say you are not. I would almost rather have died in that dreadful place than know my brother did this. Surely it is not true?” “Yes, true in every particular,” Everard replied, softening now as much as possible what he had still to tell of the man whose trial would come on very soon, and for whom there was no escape. “Couldn’t you save him, Everard, if you should try? Couldn’t I do something?” she asked. “No, Rossie,” he answered. “You could not save him, and ought not if you could. Men like him must be punished,—must answer for their misdeeds, else there is no such thing as justice or protection for any one. You are not angry with me, Rossie?” he continued, as she drew her hand from his and leaned back in her chair. “No, not angry; only it is all so very horrible, and brings the buzzing back, and the confusion, and I hardly know who I am, or who you are, or what it’s all about, only you must go away. I can’t hear any more,” she said, wearily; and after that there were days and weeks when she lay in bed, and scarcely moved or noticed any one, except Everard, whom she welcomed with her sweetest smile, saying to him always the same thing: “I have been thinking and thinking, and praying and praying, and I suppose it is right, but oh! I am so sorry.” Everard knew that her mind was dwelling upon the miserable man, who, when told of her condition and that the trial was to be delayed till she was able to give her testimony, had said: