omething in the tone and the sigh caught Biddy's attention. She was
sitting at the table more silent than usual, very much absorbed, in
fact, with her own grievances. What did mamma mean?

'Is papa ill?' she asked abruptly.

Alie glanced at her, frowning slightly. Her mother turned quickly.

'What a strange question to ask, Bride,' she said; 'it is just like
you--you cannot but know that papa is not at all strong.'

Biddy looked puzzled. 'Strong' to her meant vaguely being able to lift
heavy weights, or things of that kind.

'I didn't know he was _ill_,' she replied. 'I didn't know big people
were ill except for going to die, like our 'nother grandmamma. Papa's
had the measles and chicken-pox when he was little, hasn't he? I thought
it was only children that could be ill to get better like that.'

Mrs. Vane glanced at Rosalys in a sort of despair. But before Alie could
say anything to smooth matters, her mother called Bridget from her seat
and made her stand before her.

'Bridget,' she said, 'I don't know what to say to you. Have you no heart
or feeling at all? How _can_ you say such things. I do not believe in
your not understanding; you can understand when you choose, and you are
nearly eight years old. You must know how miserably anxious I have been
and still am about your father; you _must_ know it is for his health we
have come to this strange, dreary place, away from every one we care
for, and you can talk in that cold-hearted, cold-blooded way about dying
and not getting better and--and----' Mrs. Vane's voice trembled and
quivered. She seemed almost as if she were going to cry. Alie came and
stood beside her, gently putting her arm round her mother and looking
daggers at Bride. Mamma was nervous and over-tired, she knew; she had
had so much to go through lately. How could Biddy be so naughty and
unfeeling? And yet, as the words passed through her mind, Rosalys
hesitated. Biddy was not really unfeeling--it was not the word for her.
It was more as if she would not take the trouble to feel or to
understand anything that was not her own special concern; there was a
queer kind of laziness about her, which led to selfishness. It was as if
her mind and heart were asleep sometimes.

But she could feel. Her face was all puckered up now; there was no
temper or sullenness about it, but real pale-faced distress.

'Mamma,' she said brokenly, 'I didn't, oh, truly, I didn't mean it that
way. I know papa isn't old enoug