“I am sorry, dear, if I spoke sharply just now,” said Ellen presently. “I am afraid that I am an argumentative creature, and it is not good for you to argue at present. But, to tell the truth, I was a little put out because you took the story of dear Emma’s distress so coolly, and also because I had wished to be the first to tell it to you.” “I did not mean to take it coolly, Ellen, and I can only repeat that I am sorry. I think it a pity that a girl of Miss Levinger’s emotional temperament, who probably has had no previous experience of illness threatening the life of a friend, should have been exposed to such a strain upon her nerves.” “A friend—a friend?” ejaculated Ellen, arching her eyebrows. “Yes, a friend—at least I suppose that I may call myself so. Really, Ellen, you mystify me,” he added petulantly. “Really, Henry, you astonish me,” his sister answered. “Either you are the most simple of men, or you are pretending ignorance out of sheer contrariness.” “Perhaps if you would not mind explaining, it might simplify matters, Ellen. I never was good at guessing riddles, and a fall off a church tower has not improved my wits.” “Oh, how can you talk in that way! Don’t you remember what I told you when you came home?” “You told me a good many things, Ellen, most of which were more or less disagreeable.” “I told you that Emma Levinger was half in love with you, Henry.” “Yes, I know you did; and I didn’t believe you.” “Well, perhaps you will believe me now, when I say that she is wholly in love with you—as much in love as ever woman was with man.” “No,” said Henry, shaking his head; “I don’t wish to contradict, but I must decline to believe that.” “Was there ever so obstinate a person! Listen now, and if you are not satisfied of the truth of what I say, ask mother, ask Mr. Levinger, ask the girl herself.” And word for word she repeated the passionate confession that had been wrung from poor Emma’s agony. “Now will you believe me?” she said. “It seems that I must,” he answered, after a pause; “though I think it quite possible that Miss Levinger’s words sprang from her excitement, and did not mean what they appeared to convey. I think also, Ellen, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself for repeating to me what slipped from her in a moment of mental strain, and thus putting her in a false position. Supposing that the doctor, or Joan Haste, were to tell you every foolish thing which I may have uttered during my delirium, what would you think of them, I wonder? Still, I dare say that I led you on and you meant it kindly; but after this I am sure I do not know how I shall dare to look that poor girl in the face. And now I think I am a little tired. Would you call Mrs. Gillingwater or some one?”