Miss Gale saw her approaching a dangerous topic, so she said, hastily, “Don't say if you live, please, because that is arranged. You have been out of danger this twenty-four hours, provided you do not relapse; and I must take care of that.”
“My kind friend,” said Ina, “I shall not relapse; only my weakness is pitiable. Sometimes I can scarcely forbear crying, I feel so weak. When shall I be stronger?”
“You shall be a little stronger every three days. There are always ups and downs in convalescence.”
“When shall I be strong enough to move?”
“Let me answer that question,” said Vizard. “When you are strong enough to sing us Siebel's great song.”
“There,” said Fanny Dover; “there is a mercenary host for you. He means to have a song out of you. Till then you are his prisoner.”
“No, no, she is mine,” said Miss Gale; “and she shan't go till she has sung me 'Hail, Columbia.' None of your Italian trash for me.”
Ina smiled, and said it was a fair condition, provided that “Hail, Columbia,” with which composition, unfortunately, she was unacquainted, was not beyond her powers. “I have often sung for money,” said she; “but this time”—here she opened her grand arms and took Rhoda Gale to her bosom—“I shall sing for love.”
“Now we have settled that,” said Vizard, “my mind is more at ease, and I will retire.”
“One moment,” said Ina, turning to him. Then, in a low and very meaning voice, “There is something else.”