One beautiful night, when they had taken a longer walk than was customary with them: for the day had been unusually warm, and there was a brilliant moon, and a light wind had sprung up, which was unusually refreshing. Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they had walked on, in merry conversation, until they had far exceeded their ordinary bounds. Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned more slowly home. The young lady merely throwing off her simple bonnet, sat down to the piano as usual. After running abstractedly over the keys for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as she played it, they heard a sound as if she were weeping. “Rose, my dear!” said the elder lady. Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words had roused her from some painful thoughts. “Rose, my love!” cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over her. “What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?” “Nothing, aunt; nothing,” replied the young lady. “I don’t know what it is; I can’t describe it; but I feel—” “Not ill, my love?” interposed Mrs. Maylie. “No, no! Oh, not ill!” replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly chillness were passing over her, while she spoke; “I shall be better presently. Close the window, pray!” Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune; but her fingers dropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with her hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she was now unable to repress. “My child!” said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, “I never saw you so before.” “I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,” rejoined Rose; “but indeed I have tried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I _am_ ill, aunt.” She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the very short time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of her countenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had lost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and there was an anxious haggard look about the gentle face, which it had never worn before. Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush: and a heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and she was once more deadly pale. Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was alarmed by these appearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeing that she affected to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and they so far succeeded, that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to retire for the night, she was in better spirits; and appeared even in better health: assuring them that she felt certain she should rise in the morning, quite well. “I hope,” said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, “that nothing is the matter? She don’t look well tonight, but—”