“I wanted above all things to oblige you, and I made no sacrifice. But if I had made an immense one, it would be more than made up to me by any assurance that I have helped Roderick into a better mood.” She was silent a moment, and then, “Why do you ask me?” she said. “You are able to judge quite as well as I.” Rowland blushed; he desired to justify himself in the most veracious manner. “The truth is,” he said, “that I am afraid I care only in the second place for Roderick’s holding up his head. What I care for in the first place is your happiness.” “I don’t know why that should be,” she answered. “I have certainly done nothing to make you so much my friend. If you were to tell me you intended to leave us to-morrow, I am afraid that I should not venture to ask you to stay. But whether you go or stay, let us not talk of Roderick!” “But that,” said Rowland, “does n’t answer my question. Is he better?” “No!” she said, and turned away. He was careful not to tell her that he intended to leave them. One day, shortly after this, as the two young men sat at the inn-door watching the sunset, which on that evening was very striking and lurid, Rowland made an attempt to sound his companion’s present sentiment touching Christina Light. “I wonder where she is,” he said, “and what sort of a life she is leading her prince.” Roderick at first made no response. He was watching a figure on the summit of some distant rocks, opposite to them. The figure was apparently descending into the valley, and in relief against the crimson screen of the western sky, it looked gigantic. “Christina Light?” Roderick at last repeated, as if arousing himself from a reverie. “Where she is? It ‘s extraordinary how little I care!” “Have you, then, completely got over it?” To this Roderick made no direct reply; he sat brooding a while. “She ‘s a humbug!” he presently exclaimed. “Possibly!” said Rowland. “But I have known worse ones.” “She disappointed me!” Roderick continued in the same tone. “Had she, then, really given you hopes?”