Lennox’s chair still stood on the same spot, but she was not there. There were some books on the table, but Rosalind was not reading. She had some needlework in her hands, but that was little more than a pretence; she was thinking, and all her thoughts were directed to one subject. She smiled when he came up, yet grudged to lose the freedom of those endless thoughts. “I thought,” she said, “you were on the water with Rex.” “No, I told you I wanted something to do. I think I have got what I wanted, but I should like to tell you about it, Rosalind.” “Yes?” she said, looking up again with a smiling interrogation. She thought it was about some piece of exercise or amusement, some long walk he was going to take, some expedition which he wanted to organize. “I have heard something very strange,” he said. “It appears that I said something the other night to Rivers, whom I found when I went back to the hotel, and that somebody, some lady, was seen to come near and listen. I was not saying any harm, you may suppose, but only that the children were upset. And this lady came around to hear what I was saying.” His meaning did not easily reach Rosalind, who was preoccupied, and did not connect Roland at all with the mystery around her. She said, “That was strange; who could it be; some one who knew us in the hotel?” “Rosalind, I have never liked to say anything to you about--Madam.” “Don’t!” she said, holding up her hand; “oh, don’t, Roland. The only time you spoke to me about her you hurt me--oh, to the very heart; not that I believed it; but it was so grievous that you could think, that you could say--that you could see even, anything--” “I have thought it over a hundred times since then, and what you say is true, Rosalind. One has no right even to see things that--there are some people who are above even-- I know now what you mean, and that it is true. You knew her better than any one else, and your faith is mine. That is why I came to tell you. Rosalind--who could that woman be but one? She came behind the bushes to hear what I was saying. She was all trembling--who else could that be?” “Roland!” Rosalind had risen up, every tinge of color ebbing from her face; “you too!--you too--!” “No,” he said, rising also, taking her hand; “not that, not that, Rosalind. If she were dead, as you think, would she not know everything? She would not need to listen to me. This is what I am sure of, that she is here and trying every way--” She grasped his hands as if her own were iron, and then let them go, and threw herself into her seat, and sobbed, unable to speak, “Oh, Roland! oh, Roland!” with a cry that went to his heart.