Meanwhile, Rotha having driven her adversary from the field, was making peaceful arrangements. She had sent the toast to be made; seeing that Mr. Digby's eyes were open, she carefully renewed the salt water application to his ankle; poured out a cup of tea, and brought it with the plate of toast to his side; where she sat down, the cup in one hand, the plate in the other. "What now, Rotha?" said he. "Your tea, Mr. Digby. I hope it is good." She looked and spoke as gentle as a dove, albeit full of energetic alertness. "And do you propose to enact dumb waiter?" "If you want me to be dumb," she said. He laughed. "Rotha, Rotha! this is a bad piece of work!" he said; but he did not explain what he meant.--"That won't do. Call Marianne and let her shove the table up to the sofa here--one corner of it." "I like to hold the things, Mr. Digby, if you will let me." "I don't like it. Call Marianne, Rotha, and we will take our tea together. I am not a South Sea Islander." "Suppose you were,--what then?" asked Rotha as she rang the bell. "Then I suppose I should think it proper for the ladies of the family to take tea after I had done." The tea time was an occasion of unmitigated delight to Rotha, because she could wait upon her protector. He was suffering less now, and except that he was a prisoner seemed just as usual. After tea, however, he lay still, with closed eyes again; and Rotha had nothing to do but take care of his ankle and look at him. She thought it had never struck her before, what a beautiful person he was.