Mrs. Presty heard him, and answered him:—­“She’ll come back again!”

SECOND BOOK

Chapter XV.

The Doctor.

As the year advanced, the servants at Mount Morven remarked that the weeks seemed to follow each other more slowly than usual.  In the higher regions of the house, the same impression was prevalent; but the sense of dullness among the gentlefolks submitted to circumstances in silence.

If the question had been asked in past days:  Who is the brightest and happiest member of the family? everybody would have said:  Kitty.  If the question had been asked at the present time, differences of opinion might have suggested different answers—­but the whole household would have refrained without hesitation from mentioning the child’s name.

Since Sydney Westerfield’s departure Kitty had never held up her head.

Time quieted the child’s first vehement outbreak of distress under the loss of the companion whom she had so dearly loved.  Delicate management, gently yet resolutely applied, held the faithful little creature in check, when she tried to discover the cause of her governess’s banishment from the house.  She made no more complaints; she asked no more embarrassing questions—­but it was miserably plain to everybody about her that she failed to recover her spirits.  She was willing to learn her lessons (but not under another governess) when her mother was able to attend to her:  she played with her toys, and went out riding on her pony.  But the delightful gayety of other days was gone; the shrill laughter that once rang through the house was heard no more.  Kitty had become a quiet child; and, worse still, a child who seemed to be easily tired.

The doctor was consulted.

He was a man skilled in the sound medical practice that learns its lessons without books—­bedside practice.  His opinion declared that the child’s vital power was seriously lowered.  “Some cause is at work here,” he said to the mother, “which I don’t understand.  Can you help me?” Mrs. Linley helped him without hesitation.  “My little daughter dearly loved her governess; and her governess has been obliged to leave us.”  That was her reply.  The doctor wanted to hear no more; he at once advised that Kitty should be taken to the seaside, and that everything which might remind her of the absent friend—­books, presents, even articles of clothing likely to revive old associations—­should be left at home.  A new life, in new air.  When pen, ink, and paper were offered to him, that was the doctor’s prescription.

Mrs. Linley consulted her husband on the choice of the seaside place to which the child should be removed.