"I shall never face the world," return I, quietly. "Here is my convent; at least within its walls I find peace. I see no one, therefore hear no evil talk. I have no wish to be disturbed." "So you think now; but as time goes on you must--you cannot fail to tire of it. Is it natural to one so young to lock herself voluntarily away from people of her own age? Why, how old are you, child?" "Almost nineteen." "Almost, nineteen!" cries he, with an unmirthful laugh, "and you may live for fifty years! Are you going to immure yourself within these same four walls for fifty years." "I shall not live for fifty years." "But you may; without excitement of any description I see no reason why you should not live for a century." "I shall not live for two years," returned I, impressively. "Phyllis what are you saying?" cries he, with a shudder. "The truth. I am dying slowly, and I know it. I am glad of it. I have no energy, no hope, no wish for life. Do you wonder much? At times I have a strange fancy that I am already dead; and then---" I break off dreamily. "What abominable morbid fancy! It is horrible!" exclaims Sir Mark, excitedly. "You must see a doctor without delay; if you were well no such mournful ideas would occur to you." "Mournful!" I smile a little. "Yes, perhaps so--when I wake again to--find I am alive." "Nonsense," impatiently. "Why have your people left you so much alone? It is shameful, unheard of! Phyllis, promise me you will see a doctor if I send one." "Who shall minister to a mind diseased?" say I, still smiling. "No, I will not see your doctor. My ailment has no name; I do not suffer; quiet is my best medicine." We walk on a little way in silence. "You do not ask after your friends," says he, abruptly. "Have I still any left? Well, tell me. I should like to know how is Marmaduke? and where?" "Do you not hear from him, then?" turning to gaze suspiciously in my face. "No; why should I? We parted forever when he brought me here. Oh," with a sudden, sharp uplifting of my voice--"how long ago it seems! what years, and years, and years! Tell me you--where is he?" "Abroad somewhere; we none of us know where. You think of him incessantly?" still with his eyes searching and reading my face; "it is for him the color has left your cheeks, the light has died from your eyes? Is it the old life, or is it merely him you regret?" "I think I regret nothing but my youth," return I, wearily. "Had you never, at any time, any idea of the truth?" asks he, in a low tone, presently. "Never. How should I. He kept it from me, fearing it would cause me pain." "He deceived you grossly." "Yes but, as he thought, for my good. Where was the use of enlightening me? The story was told; the woman was dead--or so he believed. He chose to hide it from me." "Yes, he hid it from you."