When the doctor paid a final visit, he said to Mrs. Beamish:
"The young fellow is not fit to go to England; his head would never stand the journey. Try and rouse him, keep him interested and amused, then get him by easy stages to some place in the Hills. In a couple of months, he may be all right."
"We can move him up to my coffee estate," suggested Tom. "It's an easy road, and only a hundred miles from this; bearers and a doolie will do it in twenty-four hours."
"The very thing!" agreed the doctor, "but don't leave him alone; try and make him talk, talk to him,—and rouse him."
This was by no means a simple prescription! Nothing seemed to rouse the invalid; not dogs, or picture papers, or even the prolonged visits of the good-natured Beaufort girls, who deafened the sufferer with their chatter, and loaded him with flowers and sympathy; but one day, after Tara had quitted the room, he said suddenly:
"Why is she so unlike—the others?"
"Bless me! That's a funny question," exclaimed Mrs. Beamish, laying down her sewing and surveying him critically.
"No," raising himself on his elbow. "Quite—quite—quite—what's the word? She is different from—all of you—why?"
Mrs. Beamish reflected for a moment, as she carefully threaded her needle; her patient exhibited interest for the first time, should she tell him something that would possibly startle and stir his stagnant mind?—or not?
"Well, then you shall hear," she answered, after a long pause. "But it's a secret, and I know you can keep one."