Can the reader really realize, I wonder, what the situation was? Can he only imagine one single hour of its terrors, or picture its never-ceasing, prolonged doubt and agony? I think not. It cannot be adequately told of. Behind and before there was the awful vista of that dreadful Portland Island: look which way they would, nothing else presented itself. A gentle breeze suddenly arose, stirring the trees outside. Never an unexpected sound, however faint, was heard, but it stirred their beating hearts; stirred them to a fast, fluttering, ugly throbbing. It was but the wind; they knew it was only that: and yet the emotion did not subside quickly. Rose had another great anxiety, separate and apart: perhaps he had it also in a degree, but he did not admit it. It was on the score of her husband's health. There could be no doubt that something or other was amiss, for he had occasional attacks of pain that seemed to arise without any explainable cause. Ann Hopley, who considered herself wise in ailments, declared that he ought to see a doctor. She had said it to her master ineffectually; she now began to say it to her mistress. Sir Adam laughed when his wife was present, and ridiculed her advice with mocking words of pleasantry; but Ann Hopley gave nothing but grave looks in return. The fact was, she knew more than Rose did: more than Sir Adam intended or would allow his wife to know. One day, going to a part of the grounds where she knew she should find her master, she discovered him on the ground amidst the trees in a fainting-fit, his face of a bluish-white. Some acute pain, or spasm, sharper than he had ever felt before, had caused him to lose consciousness, he said, when he recovered; and he threatened the woman with unheard of pains and penalties if she breathed a word to her mistress. Ann Hopley held her tongue accordingly: but when Rose was about again she could see that Adam was not well. And the very impossibility of calling in a medical man to him, without arousing curiosity and comments that might lead to danger, was tormenting her with its own anxiety. "The baby sleeps well to-night, Rose." "He has slept better and has been altogether easier since he was baptised," was her answer. "It is just as though he knew he had been made a little Christian, and so feels at rest." "Goose!" smiled Sir Adam. "Don't you think you are sitting up too late, you young mamma?" "I am not tired, Adam. I slept well this afternoon." "It is later than perhaps you are aware of, Rose. Hard upon ten." "Would you like to have lights!" she asked. "No. I'd rather be without them." She also would rather be without them. In this extended cause for fear that was growing up, it seemed safer to be at the open window looking out, than to be shut up in the closed room where the approaches of danger could neither be seen nor heard. Perhaps the same kind of feeling was swaying Sir Adam. "You are sure you are well wrapped up, Rose?"