"I cannot understand this," I said. And I really can't. "I hope you never will. Self-experience alone could enlighten you, nothing else; not all the books and arguments in the world." "You allude to the time when Mr. St. John went away in anger." "Not so," she murmured, scarcely above her breath. "When I learnt that he loved another." "I think it is fallacy, that idea of yours, Adeline," I said, determined to dispute it for her own sake. "How could he have cared for Sarah Beauclerc and for you at the same time? He could not love you both." "No, he could not," she said, a vivid, painful flush rising to her cheeks. "But he knew her first, and he is with her now. Can you draw no deduction?" "We don't know where he is," I said. "Was your sister good-looking, Adeline?" "Maria was beautiful," she replied. "We were much alike, resembling papa in feature, and mamma in figure and complexion." "And she also died of consumption. What an insidious disease it is! How it seems to cling to particular families!" "What is running in your head now, Mary? Maria died of scarlet fever. She was delicate as a child, and I believe they feared she might become consumptive. I don't know what grounds they had to judge by: perhaps little other than her fragile loveliness." "If consumption is fond of attacking great beauties, perhaps Rose will go off in one." "Rose!" answered Adeline--and there was a smile on her lip--"if Rose goes off in anything, it will be in a coach-and-four with white favours." And so the days pass on; Adeline, I fear, not really better. To look at her, she is well--well, and very lovely; but so she was before. If they could but get her to the South! But with this winter weather it is impossible: the doctors say she would die on the road. If they had but taken advantage, while they might have done it, of the glorious summer weather! If!--if!--if! These "ifs" follow too many of us through life; as they may henceforth follow the Signor and Madame de Castella. CHAPTER XXVII. THE LITTLE CHILD GONE. You have not failed to notice the one item of news in Miss Carr's diary--the death of a little heir--or to recognize it for the young heir of Alnwick. Since quitting Belport, Mrs. Carleton St. John had pursued the same course of restless motion until within two or three weeks of the final close. Whether she would have arrested her wandering steps then of her own accord, must be a question, but the sick-nurse, Mrs. Brayford, interfered. "You are taking away every chance for his life, madam," she said, one day. "If you persist in dragging the child about, I must leave you, for I cannot stay to see it. It will surely prove fatal to him before his time."