Rose's letter contained ill news of the Darling family. Her quick sight saw what it was, and she hastened to put the letter up, not caring to speak of it at once to Adeline. Really she is growing more cautious than she used to be! That poor little child, the heir, in whose life was bound up so much of worldly prosperity, is dead: he died more than a week ago. Rose is in a state of what she is pleased to call "dumps." Firstly, for the child's own sake: she never saw him but once, this summer at Belport, but took a real liking for the little fellow; secondly, because Rose has orders to put herself into mourning. If Rose hates one thing in this world more than another, it is a black bonnet. Adeline was standing by the fire today when the English physician came in. He was struck with the improvement in her looks. "You are cheating us all," he said. "We shall have a wedding yet." "Or a funeral, doctor," quietly answered Adeline. "I speak as I think," he seriously said. "I do believe that now there is great hope of your recovery. If we could but get you to the South!" "Adeline," I exclaimed, as the physician went out, and she and I were alone, "you heard what he said. Those words were worth a king's ransom." "They were not worth a serfs," was her reply. "I appreciate his motives. He imagines that the grave must of necessity be a bitter and terrible prospect, and is willing to cheer me with hopes, whether they prove true or false: as all doctors do; it is in their trade. But he knows perfectly well that I must die." "How calmly you speak! One would think you _coveted_ the approach of death!" "Well--I don't know that I regret it." "Has life no longer a charm for you? Oh, that you had never met Frederick St. John!" "Don't say so! He came to me in mercy." A burst of tears succeeded to the words, startling me nearly out of my senses. "There! that's your fault," she cried, with a wretched attempt at gaiety. "In talking of regret, you made me think of my dear papa and mamma. Their grief will be dreadful." "Oh, Adeline, _don't_ try to turn it off in this way," I stammered, not knowing what to say, and horribly vexed with myself. "What do you mean--that he came to you in mercy with this wretchedness upon you, the crushed spirit, the breaking heart? I see what you go through day by day, night by night. Is there any cessation to the pain? Is it not as one never-ending anguish?" Adeline was strangely excited; her eyes glistening, her cheeks a burning crimson, and her white, fragile, feverish hands fastening upon mine. "It is all you say," she whispered. "And now he is with another!" "I can understand the misery _that_ thought brings." "No, you can't. If my heart were laid bare before you, and you saw the wretchedness there as it really is, it would appear to you all as the mania of one insane; and to him as to the rest." "And yet you say this has come to you in mercy!"