“Shall I tell you what would make her happy? To see me sitting here by your side, to hear you counselling me so sweetly; to know that was your opinion, to hope perhaps--” “Mr. Rivers, do not say any more about this. You make so much more than is necessary of a few simple words. What I want you to tell me is about _her_.” “I will tell you as much as I know,” he said, with a pause and visible effort of self-restraint. “She was travelling by unusual routes, but without any mystery. She had a maid with her, a tall, thin, anxious woman.” “Oh, Jane!” cried Rosalind, clasping her hands together with a little cry of recognition and pleasure; this seemed to give such reality to the tale. She knew very well that the faithful maid had gone with Mrs. Trevanion; but to see her in this picture gave comfort to her heart. “You knew her? She seemed to be very anxious about her mistress, very careful of her. Miss Trevanion, it may very well be that in my wanderings I may meet with them again. Shall I say anything? Shall I carry a message?” Rosalind found her voice choked with tears. She made him a sign of assent, unable to do more. “What shall I tell her? That you trust me--that I am a messenger from you? I would rather be your ambassador than the queen’s. Shall I say that I have been so happy as to gain your confidence--or even perhaps--” “Oh, a little thing will do,” cried the girl; “she will understand you as soon as you say that Rosalind--” He was leaning forward, his eyes fixed upon hers, his face full of emotion. He put out his hand and touched hers, which was leaning on the table. “Yes,” he said, “I will say that Rosalind--so long as you give me an excuse for using that name.” Rosalind came to herself with a little shock. She withdrew her hand hastily. “Perhaps I am saying too much,” she said. “It is only a dream, and you may never see her. But I could not bear that you should imagine we did not speak of her, or that I did not love her, and trust her,” she added, drawing a long breath. “This is a great deal too much about me, and you had begun to tell me of your own arrangements,” Rosalind said, drawing her chair aside a little in instinctive alarm. It was the sound she made in doing so which called the attention of John Trevanion--or, rather, which moved him to turn his steps that way, his attention having been already attracted by the fixed and jealous gaze of Roland, who had sat with his face towards the group by the writing-table ever since his rival had followed Rosalind there.