"I'm putting it straight for you, Adeline."
"No matter, dear Rose. It will do very well Thank you all the same."
"I wish you'd taste this jelly; it's delicious."
"But I don't care for it; I don't care to eat," was the apathetic reply.
"Shall I read to you?" asked Rose.
"As you will, dear Rose; it seems all one to me. But thank you very much."
Thus had she been all along; thus she continued. Quiet, passive, grateful for their cares, but showing no interest in any earthly thing. No tidings whatever had been heard of Mr. St. John since he left; what quarter of the known world he might be in, whether or not he was aware of Adeline's state, they could not conjecture. It was assumed that he was in London; Adeline, for one, never thought of doubting it. All this while, and not a single remembrance from him!
Rose went to the table, turned over the books collected there, and took up a volume of Tennyson.
"Not that," said Adeline, quickly glancing up with a faint colour. "Something else."
No, not that. He had given her the book, and been accustomed to read it to her. How could she bear to hear it read by another?