Poor Harry uncovered his white unhappy face. “I?--nothing--nothing--you know I have nothing to say--good bye, Mr. Charteris.” “It is so short a time since we left Ayr,” said Agnes, offering Cuthbert her trembling hand. And then he left the room. The lobby was quite dark. Cuthbert fancied he heard some sound like a suppressed sob as Rose stole out after him, and closed the parlour door. It was Violet sitting in gloom and solitude on the ground, with her little desolate heart well nigh bursting. Martha had been displeased at her. Harry had struck her--and fearful dreams of being utterly alone, and having no one in the world to care for her, were passing drearily through Violet’s mind. That sad dumb anguish of the child, which we do not seem ever to remember when we have children to deal with, weighed down the young spirit to the very dust. She thought, poor solitary girl, miserable proud thoughts of dying, and leaving them to grieve for her when she was dead, who would not care for her enough when she was living--and she thought, too, of toiling on alone to the vague greatness which children dream of, and shutting up her heart in her solitary course, from those who had chilled and rejected it so early. Poor little dreaming inconsistent poetic child, who in an hour could be bright as the sunshine again--but while it lasted there were few things in elder life so bitter as that childish pain. Rose lifted her up and followed Charteris to the door, holding the weeping and reluctant Violet within her arm. “Mr. Charteris,” said Rose, eagerly, “do not say anything to my uncle about----. I mean, will you just tell him we are well, and not say that anything ails Harry? Will you, Mr. Charteris?” Cuthbert did not quite know what he answered, neither did Rose; but whatever it was it cheered her; and as he went away, the youthful woman lingered in the darkness, stooping over the child. Rose had reached a further stage than Violet in this grave journey of life; and if she knew more fully the absolute causes of the family affliction, she had outgrown the indefinite gloom and terror. Other thoughts, too, came in to lighten, in some degree, the heaviness of her own heart, as she soothed and consoled her little sister. Harry hitherto had been constantly the central object in her mind--the dearest always, and in his brightest times the best--perhaps only the more endeared for all his weakness; but now there began to dawn upon Rose a stronger, purer, higher ideal. Stealthy and tremulous the thought glided into her mind; a higher excellence than poor Harry’s--a fairer fate than that of Harry’s sister. She put it away as if it had been guilt; but still it had looked in upon her, and left a trace of secret sunshine behind.