“Here is come a note from the kitten. Will you have it? It may be all you will ever get of her. She says she has held her tongue; I can’t--I don’t believe her--and asks me to let her know if any are hurt. I will. Does she suppose gentlemen go out just to look at one another? Ridiculous!” I spoke at last of my father; of how he would take this matter, of his increasing acerbity, and of my own unhappy life, where I found nothing to replace my mother’s love. My last disaster and poor Jack’s wound seemed like enough to widen the gap between me and my parent, and my Aunt Gainor was troubled. “You must be first to tell him,” said my aunt. “I think he will say but little. He has given you up as a sheep lost in the darkness of iniquity, and too black to be found easily.” I begged her not to jest. I was sore and sick at heart. “Eat your breakfast,” she said, “and get it over with your father.” I hurried through the meal, and went upstairs, to find my sleeve full of blood, although no harm had been done but what was easily set right by what Dr. Rush called a bit of diachylon plaster. (I think I spell it correctly.) As I went by Darthea’s home I cast a glance up at the open window, and saw my lady looking out. She was pale, and as she called to me I could not but go in, for, indeed, she ran herself to open the door. “Come in! Oh, just a moment!” she cried. “Your aunt has written me a note, and it tells me almost nothing--nothing.” I was in no very kindly humour with Miss Darthea. Since our talk about my cousin she had been very high and mighty, and would have little to say to me except unpleasant things about the angry politics of the day. I said I was glad to have heard she had told no one of what my aunt’s rash speech had let slip. I had better have held my own tongue. Darthea was in another mood to-day, and all at once became quiet and dignified. “I gave my word, Mr. Wynne. When you know me better you will learn that I can keep it. Is--is Mr. Warder much hurt?” “Yes,” I said; “he is in great peril.” I saw how anxious she was, and was vexed enough to want to hurt her. “Oh, you men! you men!” she cried. “Will he die, do you think? Poor boy!” She sat down and began to cry. “He must not die; why did you lead him into such wicked trouble?” It was vain to explain how little I had to do with the matter. Did she love Jack? I little knew in those days how tender was this gentle heart, how it went out, tendril-like, seeking it knew not what, and was for this reason ever liable to say too much, and to give rise to misapprehension. “O Darthea!” I cried. “Dost thou love my Jack? I shall be the last to come in his way. I have said I love thee myself, and I can never change. But how can it be? how can it be? And my cousin? O Darthea!” “I love no one, sir. I love everybody. I--I think you are impertinent, Mr. Wynne. Is it your business whom I love? My God! there is blood on your hand! Are you hurt?”