"I have felt idle lately, I think. Did you find all well at home?"
"Quite well. Mary Anne has the mumps; but she is subject to them. I told her to lie in bed and rub hartshorn on her face. Is Charlotte up?"
"I don't know. I have been sitting here these two hours."
"Mr. Pym said she might get up today for a short time, provided she lay on the sofa. How those little ones are enjoying themselves."
She pointed to the park. Mr. St. John was also looking at the children, to all appearance. His right elbow rested on the arm of the bench; his hand supported his chin, and his eyes gazed out straight before him. In reality he neither saw nor heard; he was buried just then in the inward life of thought.
"What causes these illnesses of Charlotte?" he suddenly asked, without altering his position. "This is the second time."
If ever there was a startled look on a woman's face, it was on Mrs. Darling's then. "She is delicate, I think," was the answer given, after a pause.
"I think not; not naturally so," dissented Mr. St. John, with emphasis. "I hear of fits of temper, Mrs. Darling, so violent as to suggest the idea of madness for the time being," he resumed. "That was the source of this illness, I understand. The result was only a natural co2nsequence."
"Who told you that?" eagerly asked Mrs. Darling. "Mr. Pym?"
"No; Mr. Pym has never spoken a word to me on the subject in his life. I mentioned it to him on the occasion of the other illness, ten months ago; but he would not understand me--turned it off in an unmistakably decisive manner."