There was a sound of something like heartlessness in the tone: but Lettice would not hear it, would not believe it. She knew the reality of his affection, and the assumed manner did not take her in. Indeed her mind was so full of other thoughts, and so bent upon the present fight for self-command, that she noticed it less than might have been expected. Only, the absence of expressed sympathy brought a chill. "You see, Lettice, it's no good to talk," he said. "Nothing can change—that! We have to keep up and go on. Things are as they are, and nobody can make them different. And you've got to be brave." Her lips quivered. "Yes, I will," she said. "I do mean to be good, indeed, and not to give trouble. And I'll do—anything you tell me." "Of course you will. Get well and strong, the first thing." "I'll—try." "I've got a note from Dr. Bryant. He couldn't come, and so much the better, perhaps. But he offers you a home still. And you must go the first possible day." "Yes. She told me—" "Of course," as voice failed. "That's the right thing. The Valentines are strangers, and we are too much indebted to them already. You can get off in a day or two?" "If Mr. Jasper will let me. I am so tired now, with everything." "Change will do you good. I can't have you put off. Only mind—you belong to me, not to the Bryants." "Must I love nobody there?" "You'll like them well enough. Quite as much as signifies. It's only for a time. Be sure you write to me once a week, and tell me everything. I mean to get on, and to have a home for you by-and-by." Lettice was nerving herself to deliver the dying message of Cecilia, which she knew Felix had not yet heard. Twice she began to speak of it, and Felix led away to other subjects. The third time she held to her point, refused to be diverted from it, and with resolute tearlessness repeated the impassioned words which had made a vivid impression on her own mind. Felix heard in silence. "Of course it has all been very trying for you," he said at length, finding some remark expected. "Felix, what did she mean? I have not liked to ask anybody, but I don't understand. I want to do what she said, and I don't know how. What did she mean?" "I wish she had never come to this house," was Felix's answer. "O no—if we hadn't—and it made her so much happier—not afraid! I should be afraid." One sob, long pent-up, had at length its way, and Lettice pressed her forehead against his shoulder. "O Sissie! O Felix, I don't know how to bear it!" "You've got to be brave," said Felix, by way of impotent comfort. "I do try. I do try. But I shall be so lonely," sobbed the girl, and Felix had no help to offer. CHAPTER VIII. FROM READING TO BRISTOL.