"Vesta is so literal, you see!" said Mrs. Tree, comfortably. "Then that is settled; and you will give your orders to Direxia. I am utterly unfit to talk, and you forbid me to see anybody. How do you think Vesta is looking, James?"
Doctor Stedman's eyes, which had been twinkling merrily under his shaggy eyebrows, grew suddenly grave.
"Badly!" he said, briefly. "Worn, tired—almost sick. She ought to have absolute rest, mind, body, and soul, and, instead of that, here comes this—"
"Catamaran?" suggested Mrs. Tree, blandly.
"You know her better than I do," said James Stedman. "Here she comes, at any rate, and settles down on Vesta, and announces that she has come to stay. It ought not to be allowed. Mrs. Tree, I want Vesta to go away; she is unfit for visitors, if you will. I want her to go off somewhere for an entire change. Can it not be managed in some way?"
"Why don't you take her?" said Mrs. Tree.
The slow red crept into James Stedman's strong, kindly face. He made no reply at first, but sat looking into the fire, while the old woman watched him.
At last—"You asked me that once before, Mrs. Tree," he said, with an effort; "how many years ago was it? Never mind! I can only make the same answer that I made then. She will not come."
"Have you tried again, James?"
"Yes, I have tried again, or—tried to try. I will not persecute her; I told you that before."