"So do I love, but you must not think of returning till you are quite strong and well again." "No," she answered; "I think a sick wife is as bad in a house as a scolding wife, or worse, because at least the latter cannot excite anxiety, although it _was_ only Miss Dean made me ill." Mortomley shook his head, "Never mind what made you ill, dear, so as you only get well," he answered, and then, for the twilight had closed upon them and the place was empty of visitors, they paced slowly back along that walk by the sea hand clasped in hand. If--nine years husband though he was--he had known more of Dolly, possessed much insight into the windings and subtleties of any woman's nature, it would have struck him as curious that after the confidence given, his wife did not at once pack up her dresses and return to Homewood. Happily for him he did not understand her, did not comprehend the light words she had spoken apparently in jest were uttered in real earnest. "A sick wife,"--Dolly's imagination could present even to itself few more terrible pictures than that, and she knew and some one else knew it was needful for her to take practical measures to avert so fearful a misfortune. With the solemn old doctor Dolly had jested about her illness, had laughed at advice, had grudgingly consented to take his medicine. It was all very pleasant, very easy, very non-alarming. Even Mortomley was satisfied when the old simpleton with a wise face assured him all his wife wanted was a month at the sea-side and entire repose. Dolly knew better. With no flourish of trumpets, saying nothing to any-body, she went off quietly by herself to a celebrated physician and told him about that little swoon. He did not say much, indeed he did not say anything at first; then he asked carelessly, almost indifferently, as was his fashion, "And what do you suppose made you faint." Mrs. Mortomley did not answer, she looked him straight in the face, as women sometimes can look, evil and danger. There ensued a dead silence, then she said, "I came here expecting you to tell me the cause." "I will answer your question hereafter, and write you a prescription meantime," he answered confusedly. "Neither is necessary at present," she replied, and laying down her guinea left the room before he could recover from his astonishment. "Now I should like to know the future of that woman," he said, "She understands all about it as well as I do." Perhaps she did, but then she possessed a marvellous buoyancy of temper, and disbelief in the infallibility of doctors. Fortunately for her, and somebody else. CHAPTER IX. THE FIRST MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM.