Mrs. Erwin lay down again with significant deliberation. Her face was still full of trouble, but of bewilderment no longer. In moments of great distress the female mind is apt to lay hold of some minor anxiety for its distraction, and to find a certain relief in it. “Lydia,” said her aunt in a broken voice, “I wish you wouldn't cry in the coverlet: it doesn't hurt the lace, but it stains the silk.” Lydia swept her handkerchief under her face but did not lift it. Her aunt accepted the compromise. “How came he to give you the book?” “Oh, I don't know. I can't tell. I thought it was because--because--It was almost at the very beginning. And after that he walked up and down with me every night, nearly; and he tried to be with me all he could; and he was always saying things to make me think--Oh dear, oh _dear_, oh dear! And he _tried_ to make me care for him! Oh, it was cruel, cruel!” “You mean that he made love to you?” asked her aunt. “Yes--no--I don't know. He tried to make me care for him, and to make me think he cared for me.” “Did he say he cared for you? Did he--” “No!” Mrs. Erwin mused a while before she said, “Yes, it was cruel indeed, poor child, and it was cowardly, too.” “Cowardly?” Lydia lifted her face, and flashed a glance of tearful fire at her aunt. “He is the bravest man in the world! And the most generous and high-minded! He jumped into the sea after that wicked Mr. Hicks, and saved his life, when he disliked him worse than anything!” “_Who_ was Mr. Hicks?” “He was the one that stopped at Messina. He was the one that got some brandy at Gibraltar, and behaved so dreadfully, and wanted to fight him.” “Whom?” “This one. The one who gave me the book. And don't you see that his being so good makes it all the worse? Yes; and he pretended to be glad when I told him I thought he was good,--he got me to say it!” She had her face down again in her handkerchief. “And I suppose _you_ think it was horrible, too, for me to take his arm, and talk and walk with him whenever he asked me!” “No, not for you, Lydia,” said her aunt, gently. “And don't you think now,” she asked after a pause, “that he cared for you?” “Oh, I _did_ think so,--I _did_ believe it; but now, _now_--” “Now, what?” “Now, I'm afraid that may be he was only playing with me, and putting me off; and pretending that he had something to tell me when he got to Venice, and he never meant anything by anything.” “Is he coming to--” her aunt began, but Lydia broke vehemently out again. “If he had cared for me, why couldn't he have told me so at once, and not had me wait till he got to Venice? He _knew_ I--”