since the time when we were first
married?"

He tossed the letter aside carelessly on a
table which was always placed by the arm of
his chair, and shook his forefinger at her with
a frown of comic reproof. "Oh fie,
Rosamond! are you trying to entrap me into
paying you compliments?"

The light tone that he persisted in adopting
seemed absolutely to terrify her. She shrank
away from his chair, and sat down again at a
little distance from him.

"I remember I used to offend you," she
continued quickly and confusedly. "No, no,
not to offend—only to vex you a little—by
talking too familiarly to the servants. You
might almost have fancied, at first, if you had
not known me so well, that it was a habit
with me because I had once been a servant
myself. Suppose I had been a servant—the
servant who had helped to nurse you in your
illnesses, the servant who led you about in
your blindness more carefully than anyone
else—would you have thought much, then, of
the difference between us? would you——"

She stopped. The smile had vanished from
Leonard's face, and he had turned a little
away from her. "What is the use, Rosamond,
of supposing events that never could
have happened?" he asked rather
impatiently.

She went to the side-table, poured out
some of the water she had brought from the
library, and drank it eagerly; then walked
to the window and plucked a few of the
flowers that were placed there. She threw
some of them away again the next moment;
but kept the rest in her hand, thoughtfully
arranging them so as to contrast their colours
with the best effect. When this was done,
she put them into her bosom, looked down
absently at them, took them out again, and,
returning to her husband, placed the little
nosegay in the button-hole of his coat.

"Something to make you look gay and
bright, love—as I always wish to see you,"
she said, seating herself in her favourite
attitude at his feet, and looking up at him
sadly, with her arms resting on his knees.

"What are you thinking about, Rosamond?"
he asked, after an interval of silence.

"I was only wondering, Lenny, whether
any woman in the world could be as fond of
you as I am. I feel almost afraid that there
are others who would ask nothing better
than to live and die for you, as well as me.
There is something in your face, in your
voice, in all your ways—something besides
the interest of your sad, sad affliction—that
would draw any woman's heart to you, I
think. If I was to die—"

"If you were to die!" He started as he
repeated the words after her, and, leaning
forward, anxiously laid his hand upon her
forehead. "You are thinking and talking
very strangely this morning, Rosamond! Are
you not well?"

She rose on her knees and looked closer
at him, her face brightening a little, and a
faint smile just playing round her lips. "I
wonder if you will always be as anxious
about me, and as fond of me, as you are
now?" she whispered, kissing his hand as
she removed it from her forehead. He leaned
back again in the chair, and told her jestingly
not to look too far into the future. The words,
lightly as they were spoken, struck deep
into her heart. "There are times, Lenny,"
she said, "when all one's happiness in the
present depends upon one's certainty of the
future." She looked at the letter, which her
husband had left open on the table near him,
as she spoke; and, after a momentary struggle
with herself, took it in her hand to read it.
At the first word her voice failed her; the
deadly paleness overspread her face again;
she threw the letter back on the table, and
walked away to the other end of the room.

"The future?" asked Leonard. "What
future, Rosamond, can you possibly mean?"

"Suppose I meant our future at Porthgenna?"
she said, moistening her dry lips
with a few drops of water. "Shall we stay
here as long as we thought we should, and
be as happy as we have been everywhere
else? You told me on the journey that I
should find it dull, and that I should be
driven to try all sorts of extraordinary
occupations to amuse myself. You said you
expected that I should begin with gardening
and end by writing a novel. A novel!" She
approached her husband again, and watched
his face eagerly while she went on. "Why
not? More women write novels now than
men. What is to prevent me from trying?
The first great requisite, I suppose, is to have
an idea of a story; and that I have got.'"
She advanced a few steps further, reached
the table on which the letter lay, and placed
her hand on it, keeping her eyes still fixed
intently on Leonard's face.

"And what is your idea, Rosamond?" he
asked.

"This," she replied. "I mean to make
the main interest of the story centre in two
young married people. They shall be very
fond of each other—as fond as we are, Lenny
—and they shall be in our rank of life.
After they have been happily married some
time, and when they have got one child to
make them love each other more dearly than
ever, a terrible discovery shall fall upon
them like a thunderbolt. The husband shall
have chosen for his wife a young lady bearing
as ancient a family name as—"

"As your name?" suggested Leonard.

"As the name of the Treverton family,"
she continued, after a pause, during which
her hand had been restlessly moving the
letter to and fro on the table. "The husband
shall be well-born—as well-born as you,
Lenny—and the terrible discovery shall be,
that his wife has no right to the ancient
name that she bore when he married her."