Mary could gather from the last words a sense he did not consciously put into them. She had her own explanation of her brother’s dreadful state. Dreadful it was, no less. His face was wasted as if by consumption. He scarcely ate enough to support life. His sleeplessness had become a disease. He never smiled, and spoke for the most part in a weary, listless tone. Mary believed that there was death in his hands. There came the day for leave-taking; he was to go to her--Isabel wrote--in the afternoon, and she would be at home to no one else. “You are glad that I am going?” she said. “Yes, I am glad. I had rather think of you among the fields.” “Ada is going with me, to stay for a week or two. She proposed it herself; I was surprised.” “But she had not left you finally?” “I quite believed she had.” They talked without any kind of emotion, but each avoided the other’s eyes. Kingcote had his usual look of illness and fatigue; Isabel was not without signs that the season had been a little too much for her strength. “I am going to Scotland in a fortnight,” she mentioned. “Of course you shall have my address. Then in October you will come down some day and see me, will you not?” “It is better that I should promise nothing. I can’t say where I may be in October.” “Always distrusting the future! I dare not do that. The future is my best friend.” “Doubtless!” he replied. “And are not our futures one and the same, Bernard?” “Let us say so, and think so if we can. But I know you have many things to occupy you. Let us say good-bye.” “I don’t like that word. _Au revoir_ is better.” “Why not good-bye? It only means ‘God be with you.’” “Does it? Then, good-bye!” She offered her lips and he just touched them. Otherwise his self-torment would not have been complete. CHAPTER XI. Isabel and Ada were alone at Knightswell for a week. Though not in reality nearer to each other, their intercourse was easier than formerly, and chiefly owing to a change in Ada’s manner. Her character seemed to be losing some of its angularities, she was less given to remarks of brusque originality, and entertained common subjects without scornful impatience. She had grown much older in the past six months. The two did not unduly tax each others tolerance; during a great part of the day, indeed, they kept apart; but at meals and in the evenings they found topics for conversation. Ada was taking a holiday; she got as much fresh air as possible, and sketched a good deal. “Ada, I don’t think you have ever given me one of your sketches,” Isabel said to her one evening, after praising a little water-colour drawn that day. “Would you care for one?” “Yes, I should.” “Any one in particular?” “Let me see. Yes; I should like the sketch you made of the cottage at Wood End. If you’ll give it me I’ll have it framed for the boudoir.” Ada kept her eyes fixed on the drawing she held. “Will you?” She gazed directly at the speaker; Isabel met her look with steady countenance.