“What you must have suffered!” he murmured.

“That is all over long ago; every year has left that further behind, and made me more content.  Dear Colin, for me there is nothing to grieve.”

He could not control himself, rose up, made a long stride, and passed through the open window into the garden.

“Oh, if I could only follow him,” gasped Ermine, joining her hands and looking up.

“Is it because you can’t walk?” said Rose, somewhat frightened, and for the first time beginning to comprehend that her joyous-tempered aunt could be a subject for pity.

“Oh! this was what I feared!” sighed Ermine.  “Oh, give us strength to go through with it.”  Then becoming awake to the child’s presence —­“A little water, if you please, my dear.”  Then, more composedly, “Don’t be frightened, my Rose; you did not know it was such a shock to find me so laid by—­”

“He is in the garden walking up and down,” said Rose.  “May I go and tell him how much merrier you always are than Aunt Ailie?”

Poor Ermine felt anything but merry just then, but she had some experience of Rose’s powers of soothing, and signed assent.  So in another second Colonel Keith was met in the hasty, agonized walk by which he was endeavouring to work off his agitation, and the slender child looked wistfully up at him from dark depths of half understanding eyes—­“Please, please don’t be so very sorry,” she said.  “Aunt Ermine does not like it.  She never is sorry for herself—­”

“Have I shaken her—­distressed her?” he asked, anxiously.

“She doesn’t like you to be sorry,” said Rose, looking up.  “And, indeed, she does not mind it; she is such a merry aunt!  Please, come in again, and see how happy we always are—­”

The last words were spoken so near the window that Ermine caught them, and said, “Yes, come in, Colin, and learn not to grieve for me, or you will make me repent of my selfish gladness yesterday.”

“Not grieve!” he exclaimed, “when I think of the beautiful vigorous being that used to be the life of the place—­” and he would have said more but for a deprecating sign of the hand.

“Well,” she said, half smiling, “it is a pity to think even of a crushed butterfly; but indeed, Colin, if you can bear to listen to me, I think I can show you that it all has been a blessing even by sight, as well as, of course, by faith.  Only remember the unsatisfactoriness of our condition—­the never seeing or hearing from one another after that day when Mr. Beauchamp came down on us.  Did not the accident win for us a parting that was much better to remember than that state of things?  Oh, the pining, weary feel as if all the world had closed on me!  I do assure you it was much worse than anything that came after the burn.  Yes, if I had been well and doing like others, I know I should have fretted and wearied, pined myself ill perhaps, whereas I could always tell myself that every year of your absence might be a step towards your finding me well; and when I was forced to give up that hope for myself, why then, Colin, the never seeing your name made me think you would never be disappointed and grieved as you are now.  It is very merciful the way that physical trials help one through those of the mind.”