"Rich!" echoed Mrs. Darling. "Frederick St. John! He is rich in debts, Rose. Frederick St. John came into a great deal of money when he was twenty-one, but it is all gone; mortgaged, or something. Frank told me about it. He went the pace, I conclude, as other young men do, and there's no doubt that he gave away a great deal: he is large-hearted. But what had helped to ruin him is his love for what he calls 'high art,' his passion for pictures. He is half mad upon the point, I should say: and what with buying up pictures of the old masters, and lavishing money upon the painters of modern ones, and dancing all over the world after galleries that nobody in their senses would ride a mile to see, Frederick St. John and his means parted company. It is impossible to help liking him, though, with all his imprudence. I knew he was out of England--to the reputed sorrow of Sarah Beauclerc." Rose pricked up her ears. "Sarah Beauclerc! One of those Gorgon girls in Eaton Place?" "No, no; quite the other branch of the family. The daughter of General and Lady Sarah Beauclerc. Since Lady Sarah's death she has resided with the Dean of Westerbury." "I think I saw her once," mused Rose, speaking slowly. "One of the loveliest girls living." "Frederick St. John seemed to think so, I believe. But your sister Margaret can tell you more about it than I can: she used to meet them last year in town. Captain Budd said there was nothing in it; it was only a case of flirtation; but Frank thought he was jealous; and wanted to make up to Miss Beauclerc himself. By the way, Rose, he has come into his title and is no longer Captain Budd. He is still in the regiment, though: it was said that his uncle, old Lord Raynor, wished it." "Mamma," interrupted Rose, "if anything should happen to little George St. John, if he should die--would not Frederick St. John be the heir to Alnwick Hall? And his brother of Castle Wafer its possessor?" Mrs. Darling started; she glanced over her shoulder, as though fearing the walls had ears. "Hush, Rose! Better not think of such things. Were you so to speak before Charlotte, I don't know what the consequences might be. No one must breathe a hint that the child's life is in danger--that there's so much as a chance of his dying." "If he be as ill as you give me to understand--and I suppose you have your information from Prance," added Rose, in a spirit of hardihood, for that subject also was interdicted--"Charlotte can't avoid seeing his state herself. She possesses just as much keen sense as you do, mamma, I can tell you that." "It is not a question of _sense_. Love blinds fond eyes to the very worst, Rose." Rose threw back her golden curls. "Why does Charlotte go about in this manner? One would think she had St. Vitus's dance. George might stand a better chance of recovery if she would let him be at rest."