And every evening since has this song been sung two or three times to please her. What is it she sees in it?
23rd.--I fear the day of life is about to close for Adeline. All the ominous symptoms of the disease have returned: pain oppresses her continually, and now she experiences a difficulty in breathing. Ah, Mr. St. John, if you were to come now and comfort her with all your love, as of yore, you could not restore her to health, or prolong her life by one single day. How strange it is we never hear of him! Is he in London?--is he at Castle Wafer?--is he abroad?--where is he?
26th.--It is astonishing that Madame de Castella continues to cheat herself as to Adeline's state--or, rather, make believe to cheat herself, as the children do at their play. She was determined there should be only one dinner-table yesterday, Christmas Day; so it was laid in the drawing-room, and Adeline went in, the nurse and Louise making a show of dressing her up for it. But all the dress, and the dinner, and the ceremony, could not conceal the truth--that she was dying. Madame de Castella was in most wretched spirits; her silent tears fell, in spite of her efforts, with every morsel she put into her mouth. The Signor was gloomy and reserved; latterly he had never been otherwise. Had it not been for Rose, there would have been no attempt at conversation; but Rose, with all her faults, is a downright treasure in a house, always gay and cheerful. We gathered round the fire after dinner, Rose cracking filberts for us all.
"Do you remember our Christmas dinner last year?" she said to Adeline.
"At Madame de Nino's? Quite well."
"And our sly draw at night at Janet Duff's cards, and the French marigold falling, as usual, to you?"
Adeline answered by a faint gesture, it may have been of assent, it may have been of denial, and Rose bit her repentant tongue. She had spoken without reflection: does she ever speak with it?
29th.--A dark, murky day has this been, but one of event for Adeline. The lights were brought in early in the afternoon, for Rose was reading to her, and it grew too dusk to see. It was the second volume of a new English novel, and Rose was so deeply interested in it, that when Susanne came in with a letter for her, she told her to "put it down anywhere," and read on.
"Not so," said Adeline, looking eagerly up; "open your letter first. Who is it from?"
"From Mary Anne, of course: Margaret never writes to me, and mamma but seldom," replied Rose, breaking the seal. And, not to lose time, she read it out at once. Mrs. Darling and her family are spending Christmas with old Mrs. Darling, in Berkshire.