Amy’s eyelids grew big with unwilling tears, and she made a great effort to draw away her hand. “Tell me, Amy, is there anything you can’t tell Rosalind? You shall not be worried or scolded, but tell me.” There was a little pause, and then the child flung her arms round her sister’s neck and hid her face. “Oh, Rosalind!” “Yes, my darling, what is it? Tell me!” Amy clung as if she would grow there, and pressed her little head, as if the contact strengthened her, against the fair pillar of Rosalind’s throat. But apparently it was easier to cling there and give vent to a sob or two than to speak. She pressed closer and closer, but she made no reply. “She has seen her every time,” said Sophy, “only she’s such a story she won’t tell. She is always seeing her. When you think she’s asleep she is lying all shivering and shaking with the sheet over her head. That is how I found out. She is so frightened she can’t go to sleep. I said I should tell Rosalind; Rosalind is the eldest, and she ought to know. But then, Amy thinks--” “What, Sophy?” “Well, that you are only our half-sister. You _are_ only our half-sister, you know. We all think that, and perhaps you wouldn’t understand.” To Rosalind’s heart this sting of mistrust went sharp and keen, notwithstanding the close strain of the little girl’s embrace which seemed to protest against the statement. “Is it really, really so?” she cried, in a voice of anguish. “Do you think I am not your real sister, you little ones? Have I done anything to make you think--” “Oh, no, no! Oh, Rosalind, no! Oh, no, no!” cried the little girl, clasping closer and closer. The ghost, if it was a ghost, the “lady” who, Sophy was sure, was a “real lady,” disappeared in the more immediate pressure of this poignant question. Even Rosalind, who had now herself to be consoled, forgot, in the pang of personal suffering, to inquire further. And they were still clinging together in excitement and tears when the door was opened briskly, and Uncle John, all brown and dusty and smiling, a day too soon, and much pleased with himself for being so, suddenly marched into the room. A more extraordinary change of sentiment could not be conceived. The feminine tears dried up in a moment, the whole aspect of affairs changed. He was so strong, so brown, so cordial, so pleased to see them, so full of cheerful questions, and the account of what he had done. “Left London only yesterday,” he said, “and here I am. What’s the matter with Amy? Crying! You must let her off, Rosalind, whatever the sin may be, for my sake.” CHAPTER XLVII.