“Oh, nothing,” said Rosalind, inconsistently. “When I said I was sorry he had taken the trouble, he said, ‘Oh, if it was any trouble it was repaid.’ Nothing at all! Only a gentleman would not have said that to a girl who was--alone.” “That is true; but it was not very much after all. Fashions change. A few generations ago it would have been the right thing.” Then he dropped the subject as a matter without importance, and drew his niece’s arm within his own. “Rosie,” he said, “I am afraid we shall have to face the future, you and I. What are we to do?” “Are things so very bad, Uncle John?” she cried, and the tears came welling up into her eyes as she raised them to his face. “Very bad, I fear. This last attack has done him a great deal of harm, more than any of the others; perhaps, because, as the doctor says, the pace is quicker as he gets near the end, perhaps because he is still as angry as ever, though he is not able to give it vent. I wonder if such fury may not have some adequate cause.” “Oh, Uncle John!” Rosalind cried; she clasped her hands upon his arm, looking up at him through her tears. He knew what was the meaning in her tone, though it was a meaning very hard to put into words. A child cannot say of her father when he is dying that his fury has often been without any adequate cause. “I know,” he said, “and I acknowledge that no one could have a more devoted nurse. But whether there have not been concealments, clandestine acts, things he has a right to find fault with--” “Even I,” said Rosalind, hastily, “and I have nothing to hide--even I have had to make secrets from papa.” “That is the penalty, of course, of a temper so passionate. But she should not have let you do so, Rosalind.” “It was not she. You think everything is her fault; oh, how mistaken you are! My mother and I,” cried the girl, impetuously, “have no secrets from each other.” John Trevanion looked into the young, ingenuous countenance with anxiety: “Then, Rosalind,” he said, “where is it that she goes? Why does she go out at that hour of all others, in the dark? Whom does she meet? If you know all this, I think there cannot be another word to say; for nothing that is not innocent would be intrusted to you.” Rosalind was silent. She ceased to look at him, and even withdrew her clasping hands from his arm. “You have nothing to say? There it is: she has no secrets from you, and yet you can throw no light on this one secret. I have always had a great admiration and respect for your stepmother, Rosalind.” “I wish you would not call her my stepmother! It hurts me. What other mother have I ever known?” “My dear, your love for her is a defence in itself. But, Rosalind, forgive me, there is some complication here. If she will not explain, what are we to do? A mystery is always a sign of something wrong; at least, it must be taken for something wrong if it remains unexplained. I am, I hope, without passion or prejudice. She might have confided in me--”