Thanks partly to Beatrice’s possessing no rightful authority over Henrietta, partly to the old habit of relying on her, she contrived to make her get up and dress herself at the usual time next morning.  But nothing would prevail on her to go down stairs.  She said she could not endure to pass “that door,” where ever before the fondest welcome awaited her; and as to seeing her brother, that having been deferred yesterday, seemed to-day doubly dreadful.  The worst of this piece of perverseness—­for it really deserved no better name—­was that it began to vex Fred.  “But that I know how to depend upon you, Uncle Geoffrey,” said he, “I should really think she must be ill.  I never knew anything so strange.”

Uncle Geoffrey resolved to put an end to it, if possible; and soon after leaving Fred’s room he knocked at his niece’s door.  She was sitting by the fire with a book in her hand, but not reading.

“Good morning, my dear,” said he, taking her languid hand.  “I bring you a message from Fred, that he hopes you are soon coming down to see him.”

She turned away her head.  “Poor dear Fred!” said she; “but it is quite impossible.  I cannot bear it as he does; I should only overset him and do him harm.”

“And why cannot you bear it as he does?” said her uncle gravely.  “You do not think his affection for her was less? and you have all the advantages of health and strength.”

“Oh, no one can feel as I do!” cried Henrietta, with one of her passionate outbreaks.  “O how I loved her!”

“Fred did not love her less,” proceeded her uncle.  “And why will you leave him in sorrow and in weakness to doubt the sister’s love that should be his chief stay?”

“He does not doubt it,” sobbed Henrietta.  “He knows me better.”

“Nay, Henrietta, what reason has he to trust to that affection which is not strong enough to overcome the dread of a few moments’ painful emotion?”

“Oh, but it is not that only!  I shall feel it all so much more out of this room, where she has never been; but to see the rest of the house—­ to go past her door!  O, uncle, I have not the strength for it.”

“No, your affection for him is not strong enough.”

Henrietta’s pale cheeks flushed, and her tears were angry.  “You do not know me, Uncle Geoffrey,” said she proudly, and then she almost choked with weeping at unkindness where she most expected kindness.

“I know this much of you, Henrietta.  You have been nursing up your grief and encouraging yourself in murmuring and repining, in a manner which you will one day see to have been sinful:  you are obstinate in making yourself useless.”

Henrietta, little used to blame, was roused to defend herself with the first weapon she could.  “Aunt Geoffrey is just as much knocked up as I am,” said she.