But it was not in human nature that a girl of this age could always and
at all hours be mistress of herself. One evening in particular she stood
before the glass in the drawing-room, and looked at herself a long
time with horror. "Is that Rosa Lusignan?" said she, aloud; "it is her
ghost."

A deep groan startled her. She turned; it was her father. She thought he
was fast asleep; and so indeed he had been; but he was just awaking, and
heard his daughter utter her real mind. It was a thunder-clap. "Oh, my
child! what shall I do?" he cried.

Then Rosa was taken by surprise in her turn. She spoke out. "Send for
a great physician, papa. Don't let us deceive ourselves; it is our only
chance."

"I will ask Mr. Wyman to get a physician down from London."

"No, no; that is no use; they will put their heads together, and he will
say whatever Mr. Wyman tells him. La! papa, a clever man like you, not
to see what a cheat that consultation was. Why, from what you told me,
one can see it was managed so that Dr. Snell could not possibly have an
opinion of his own. No; no more echoes of Mr. Chatterbox. If you really
want to cure me, send for Christopher Staines."

"Dr. Staines! he is very young."

"But he is very clever, and he is not an echo. He won't care how many
doctors he contradicts when I am in danger. Papa, it is your child's one
chance."

"I'll try it," said the old man, eagerly. "How confident you look! your
color has come back. It is an inspiration. Where is he?"

"I think by this time he must be at his lodgings in Gravesend. Send to
him to-morrow morning."

"Not I! I'll go to him to-night. It is only a mile, and a fine clear
night."

"My own, good, kind papa! Ah! well, come what may, I have lived long
enough to be loved. Yes, dear papa, save me. I am very young to die; and
he loves me so dearly."

The old man bustled away to put on something warmer for his night walk,
and Rosa leaned back, and the tears welled out of her eyes, now he was
gone.

Before she had recovered her composure, a letter was brought her, and
this was the letter from Christopher Staines, alluded to already.

She took it from the servant with averted head, not wishing it to be
seen she had been crying, and she started at the handwriting; it seemed
such a coincidence that it should come just as she was sending for him.

MY OWN BELOVED ROSA,--I now write to tell you, with a heavy heart, that
all is vain. I cannot make, nor purchase, a