state of mind, more
than of the sun-stroke, might be a question. Nobody knew anything of
that inward state, and the sun-stroke got all the blame--save, perhaps,
from Lionel himself. He may have doubted.

One day Jan called in to see him. It was in August. Several weeks had
elapsed since the commencement of his illness, and he was so far
recovered as to be removed by day to a sitting-room on a level with his
chamber--a wondrously pretty sitting-room over Lady Verner's
drawing-room, but not so large as that, and called "Miss Decima's room."
The walls were panelled in medallions, white and delicate blue, the
curtains were of blue satin and lace, the furniture blue. In each
medallion hung an exquisite painting in water colours, framed--Decima's
doing. Lady Verner was one who liked at times to be alone, and then
Decima would sit in this room, and feel more at home than in any room in
the house. When Lionel began to recover, the room was given over to him.
Here he lay on the sofa; or lounged on an easy-chair; or stood at the
window, his hands clasping hold of some support, and his legs as
tottering as were poor old Matthew Frost's. Sometimes Lady Verner would
be his companion, sometimes he would be consigned to Decima and Lucy
Tempest. Lucy was pleased to take her share of helping the time to pass;
would read to him, or talk to him; or sit down on her low stool on the
hearth-rug and only look at him, waiting until he should want something
done. Dangerous moments, Miss Lucy! Unless your heart is cased in
adamant, you can scarcely be with that attractive man--ten times more
attractive now, in his sickness--and not get your wings singed.

Jan came in one day when Lionel was sitting on the sofa, having propped
the cushion up at the back of his head. Decima was winding some silk,
and Lucy was holding the skein for her. Lucy wore a summer dress of
white muslin, a blue sprig raised upon it in tambour-stitch, with blue
and white ribbons at its waist and neck. Very pretty, very simple it
looked, but wonderfully according with Lucy Tempest. Jan looked round,
saw a tolerably strong table, and took up his seat upon it.

"How d'ye get on, Lionel?" asked he.

It was Dr. West who attended Lionel, and Jan was chary of interfering
with the doctor's proper patients--or, rather, the doctor was chary of
his doing so--therefore Jan's visits were entirely unprofessional.

"I don't get on at all--as it seems to me," replied Lionel. "I'm sure I