Hearing no answer, he rose surprised and
uneasy. Moving his poor helpless, wandering
hands to and fro before him in the air, he
walked forward a few paces, straight out
from the wall against which he had been
sitting. A chair, which his hands were not held
low enough to touch, stood in his way; and,
as he still advanced, he struck his knee
sharply against it.

A cry burst from Rosamond's lips, as if the
pain of the blow had passed, at the instant
of its infliction, from her husband to herself.
She was by his side in a moment. "You are
not hurt, Lenny?" she said, faintly.

"No, no." He tried to press his hand on
the place where he had struck himself, but
she knelt down quickly, and put her own
hand there instead; nestling her head against
him, while she was on her knees, in a
strangely hesitating, timid way. He lightly
laid the hand which she had intercepted on
her shoulder. The moment it touched her,
her eyes began to soften; the tears rose in
them, and fell slowly one by one down her
cheeks.

"I thought you had left me," he said.
"There was such a silence that I fancied you
had gone out of the room."

"Will you come out of it with me, now?"
Her strength seemed to fail her, while she
asked the question; her head drooped on her
breast, and she let the letter fall on the floor
at her side.

"Are you tired already, Rosamond? Your
voice sounds as if you were."

"I want to leave the room," she said,
still in the same low, faint, constrained
tone. "Is your knee easier, dear? Can you
walk, now?"

"Certainly. There is nothing in the world
the matter with my knee. If you are tired,
Rosamond—as I know you are, though you
may not confess it—the sooner we leave the
room the better."

She appeared not to hear the last words he
said. Her fingers were working feverishly
about her neck and bosom; two bright, red
spots were beginning to burn in her pale
cheeks; her eyes were fixed vacantly on the
letter at her side; her hands wavered about
it before she picked it up. For a few seconds,
she waited on her knees, looking at it
intently, with her head turned away from her
husband—then rose and walked to the fire-
place. Among the dust, ashes, and other
rubbish at the back of the grate were scattered
some old, torn pieces of paper. They
caught her eye, and held it fixed on them.
She looked and looked, slowly bending down
nearer and nearer to the grate. For one
moment she held the letter out over the
rubbish in both hands—the next she drew
back, shuddering violently, and turned round
so as to face her husband again. At the
sight of him, a faint, inarticulate exclamation,
half sigh, half sob, burst from her. "Oh, no,
no!" she whispered to herself, clasping her
hands together, fervently, and looking at him
with fond, mournful eyes. "Never, never,
Lenny—come of it what may!"

"Were you speaking to me, Rosamond?"

"Yes, love. I was saying—" She paused,
and, with trembling fingers, folded up the
paper again, exactly in the form in which she
had found it.

"Where are you?" he asked. "Your
voice sounds away from me, at the other end
of the room again. Where are you?"

She ran to him, flushed, and trembling,
and tearful; took him by the arm; and,
without an instant of hesitation, without
the faintest sign of irresolution in her
face, placed the folded paper boldly in his
hand. "Keep that, Lenny," she said,
turning deadly pale, but still not losing her
firmness. "Keep that, and ask me to read
it to you as soon as we are out of the Myrtle
Room."

"What is it?" he asked.

"The last thing I have found, love," she
replied, looking at him earnestly, with a
deep sigh of relief.

"Is it of any importance?"

Instead of answering, she suddenly caught
him to her bosom, clung to him with all the
fervour of her impulsive nature, and breathlessly
and passionately covered his face with
kisses.

"Gently! gently!" said Leonard, laughing.
"You take away my breath."

She drew back, and stood looking at him
in silence, with a hand laid on each of his
shoulders. "Oh, my angel!" she murmured
tenderly. "I would give all I have in
the world, if I could only know how much
you love me!"

"Surely," he returned, still laughing,
"surely, Rosamond, you ought to know by
this time!"

"I shall know soon." She spoke those
words in tones so quiet and low that they
were barely audible. Interpreting the
change in her voice as a fresh indication
of fatigue, Leonard invited her to lead him
away by holding out his hand. She took it
in silence, and guided him slowly to the
door.

On their way back to the inhabited side of
the house, she said nothing more on the
subject of the folded piece of paper which she
had placed in his hands. All her attention,
while they were returning to the west front,
seemed to be absorbed in the one act of
jealously watching every inch of ground that he
walked over, to make sure that it was safe and
smooth before she suffered him to set his foot
on it. Careful and considerate as she had
always been, from the first day of their
married life, whenever she led him from one
place to another, she was now unduly, almost
absurdly, anxious to preserve him from the
remotest possibility of an accident. Finding
that he was the nearest to the outside of the
open landing, when they left the Myrtle