"His heart?" Annie strove to say.
"Yes—the mischief is there." Mr. Rawdon spoke in a grave tone. "I was not satisfied two years ago—but he seemed so far to rally from the weakness, that one had almost ceased to recall it. No doubt there has been mischief long brewing, which must sooner or later have declared itself. The strain and agitation of this summer have only hastened matters."
"But he will be better—he will get stronger by-and-by," said Annie imploringly. "When this dreadful year is over, and we are sure—"
"Yes, I hope so." Mr. Rawdon's voice was still more grave. "We must check his doing too much."
"If he were to get away for change? Could he not take his holiday sooner?"
"That has been discussed already. It is a difficult question," Mr. Rawdon said thoughtfully. "The fact is, I don't like his going far with only you—and he seems scarcely in a state for much travelling. If change could mean full occupation of mind—but too much leisure for thought is not at all desirable. Perhaps a moderate amount of work is better at present. But we shall see. You must try, for his sake, to take a cheerful view of things, and do your best to keep up his spirits. Good-bye now. I will look in to-morrow. But mind, he is not to count himself a regular invalid."
"No," said Annie.
She found it hard to respond, hard to lift her eyes—the trouble which had come upon her seemed so very terrible. She dreaded going to the study to meet her father's look. When Mr. Rawdon was gone, she turned mechanically into the dining-room, and stood there in an attitude of hopeless despondency.
Only half-an-hour or so earlier she had sat just here, a light-hearted girl still, speaking to other light-hearted girls of troubles that might one day come, and how they should be borne. What had she known then of trouble?
Yet her words had been true, and she knew it. But she could not feel or see their truth now. She could only bow her head beneath the blow.