[CHAPTER I.]
"IT seems strange that Dr. Connor should advise your going away again in such lovely weather, and from a place to which other people come in search of health. He might let you have a little peace."
So spoke Norah Guiness to Jeannie Bellew, an only child, a probable heiress, and the object of enough thought, care, and indulgence to spoil a much finer nature than she was gifted with.
"It is always a doctor's way. He must order something different from what you have, however good that may be. I have everything that money can buy, and instead of being allowed to enjoy it in peace, am sent hither and thither at the doctor's will. Look at me, Norah. Am I like an invalid?"
Thus appealed to, Norah surveyed Jeannie as she lay back in a folding-chair and challenged her scrutiny with a half-defiant air.
Truly there was nothing of an invalid about the girl. There was a rich colour on her fair face, her figure was symmetrical, and the shapely hand on which her curly head partly rested was plump and well-rounded. Norah thought there was no trace of illness, and said so.
"The doctor should know what is best," she replied; "but as an invalid you appear to me an utter fraud."
A ringing, musical laugh greeted these words, then Jeannie started from her seat, kissed Norah, declared she always was a dear, sensible darling, whose judgment was worth that of all the doctors put together, danced round the room, and finally dropped panting into her seat again, with a considerably heightened colour.
Norah noticed that Jeannie's hand was pressed to her side, and looked grave.
"Are you wise to indulge in such violent exercise?" she asked.