spring nor autumn. As Rose drew aside the curtain, humming a scrap of a song at the same time, for she was always gay, and nothing could take it out of her, Adeline left the sofa where she had been lying, and sat down near the fire in any easy-chair of white dimity. "Mamma," she said, catching sight of Madame de Castella's lifeless, sickly aspect, "why do you not go out? It is not raining today, and the fresh air would do you good." "Oh, Adeline," sighed the unhappy mother, "nothing will do me good while I see you as you are." "Now, Madame de Castella!" remonstrated Rose. "You persist in taking a wrong view of things! Adeline is getting better and stronger every day." True, in a degree. But would it last? Perhaps Rose herself, in her inmost heart, knew that it would not. Madame de Castella rose abruptly, and quitted the room; and Rose gave a shrug to her pretty shoulders. There were times, as she privately confided to Mary Carr, when she could have shaken Madame for her line of conduct. She vented her anger just now on the pillow behind Adeline's back, knocking it unmercifully, under the plea of smoothing it to comfort. "I'm putting it straight for you, Adeline." "No matter, dear Rose. It will do very well Thank you all the same." "I wish you'd taste this jelly; it's delicious." "But I don't care for it; I don't care to eat," was the apathetic reply. "Shall I read to you?" asked Rose. "As you will, dear Rose; it seems all one to me. But thank you very much." Thus had she been all along; thus she continued. Quiet, passive, grateful for their cares, but showing no interest in any earthly thing. No tidings whatever had been heard of Mr. St. John since he left; what quarter of the known world he might be in, whether or not he was aware of Adeline's state, they could not conjecture. It was assumed that he was in London; Adeline, for one, never thought of doubting it. All this while, and not a single remembrance from him! Rose went to the table, turned over the books collected there, and took up a volume of Tennyson. "Not that," said Adeline, quickly glancing up with a faint colour. "Something else." No, not that. _He_ had given her the book, and been accustomed to read it to her. How could she bear to hear it read by another? Rose tried again: Béranger. "That won't do," she said. "A pretty laugh you would have at my French accent!" "Your accent is not a bad one, Rose." "It may pass in conversation. But to read poetry aloud in any language but one's own, is---- What's this?" continued Rose, interrupting herself as she opened another volume; which she as quickly dropped again. It was Bulwer's "Pilgrims of the Rhine." "That will do as well as another," said Adeline. "No," shortly answered Rose, avoiding the book with a gesture that was half a shrug and half a shudder. Adeline stretched out her hand and drew her near, speaking in a low murmuring tone.