"It is a very nice mild day. May I say that I hope the air here will do you a great deal of good?" and she was moving on when the invalid stopped her. "Do stay and talk to me for a minute or two, if you don't mind," she said. "I have noticed you passing so often; now and then with--your mother, I suppose?" Imogen gave a sign of assent. "But more often alone. And I wondered--" But here she stopped rather abruptly. Imogen looked up; she was carrying a little folding-stool, which she set down beside the stranger's chair. "I am rather tired," she said with a sigh; "but please, what did you wonder?" The young lady smiled, but shook her head "No," she said, "I don't think I will tell you: it might sound impertinent--from an utter stranger. If--if possibly I got to know you even a little, I think I _would_ say it." "That is not likely to happen, I fear," Imogen answered. "We are leaving here on Monday. Are you going to stay all the winter?" For the first time a rush of sudden colour overspread the lovely face, leaving it more delicately pale than before. Imogen began to change her mind about the girl's age. Something in her tone and manner made her feel as if the invalid were some years her senior; a slight, very slight touch of gentle authority made itself felt, as if the speaker were not accustomed to have her words or opinion lightly set aside. "I do not know about the whole winter," she replied. "But I feel sure-- quite sure--I shall never be able to go abroad, as my friends are still hoping. We are to have a grand consultation in a day or two: others of my friends are coming on Saturday." "But you could scarcely find a milder place in England than this," said Imogen, a little puzzled by her manner. "No: that is why I shall stay here, till--till I go still farther away," said the invalid gently. "And yet it _cannot_ be really far away--not from those we love," she added, as if speaking to herself, while her beautiful eyes seemed to be gazing at unseen things. Imogen did not speak; and when the stranger glanced at her again, she was startled to see some large tears stealing down the girl's face. "My dear child!" she exclaimed. "Yes," said Imogen, "I am crying. I think it is dreadful. I think nearly everything is dreadful in the world. Why should you have to die, so beautiful and so good--I can feel you are good; and why should I, though I'm not good at all, be so very unhappy?" Then, not a little ashamed of herself, she started up. "I shall only do you harm if I talk to you," she said. "Good-bye. Oh! don't you think perhaps you will get better after all?" She held out her hand; the lady took it and held it.