"Where is papa?" One night she did not seem so well. I was startled myself by the march of events--for Patience came to the drawing-room door, where Sir Roland and Miss Reinhart were sitting, and looked slightly confused, as she said: "I have taken the liberty of coming to you, Sir Roland. You wished me always to tell you when my lady was not so well--she seems very depressed and lonely." "I will go and sit with Lady Tayne," he said. Then he glanced at the beautiful, brilliant face of Sara Reinhart. "Laura, why are you not sitting with your mother to-night?" And I dare not tell him that my jealous heart would not let me leave him alone with her. I understood that night the art with which she managed him, and with it--child though I was--I had a feeling of contempt for the weak nature so easily managed. He came back to her looking confused. "We must defer our game at chess, Miss Reinhart," he said. "Lady Tayne is not so well; I am going to sit with her. Come on, Laura." "How good you are, Sir Roland," she said, impulsively. "You are so self-sacrificing. I must follow your good example. Can I go to the library and find a book? The evenings are very long." He looked irresolutely at her. "You must find them very long," he said. "I am very sorry." "It cannot be helped," she answered. "I have always heard that the nights in the country were twice as long as those in town. I believe it." I knew by instinct what she meant; there was no need for words. It was a veiled threat that if my father did not spend his evenings with her she would go back to town. He knew it as well, I am sure, from the look on his face. I never like to think of that evening, or how it was spent by us in my mother's room. CHAPTER X. When this unfortunate state of affairs in our household first became public property, I cannot tell. I saw the servants, some grow dissatisfied and leave, some grow impertinent, while some kind of mysterious knowledge was shared by all. "Miss Laura," said my good nurse, Emma, to me one day, "I want to talk to you very seriously. You are fifteen, and you are no longer a child. I want to impress this much upon your mind--never say anything to your mamma about Miss Reinhart, and if my lady asks any questions, try to say as little as possible--do you understand?" I looked at her. Of what use was concealment with this honest, loving heart? "Yes," I said; "I quite understand Emma. You mean that I must never tell mamma anything about papa and--Miss Reinhart?" "Heaven bless the child!" cried the startled woman; "you could not have understood better or more had you been twenty years old." "It is love for mamma that teaches me that and everything else," I answered.