"He will not," said Elinor, trembling with illness.
"More's the pity," replied Rupert. "Alice will hardly be happy for a day without Lord Minden. She has cried for him once or twice already. But you are ill, dearest. Go to rest."
"Not yet," said Elinor, "I shall be better soon. Come, Alice, to mamma."
It was an unwonted summons, and the child stared. She had seldom been invited to her mother's arms; and the visits, when made, were generally of short duration. There seemed some heart in Elinor to-night. Rupert observed it. He caught the child up quickly, placed her in her mother's lap, and kissed them both.
In the act, a tear—a mingled drop of bitterness and joy—started to his eye and lingered there.
Strange contrast! His face suddenly beamed with new-born delight: hers was as pale as death.
"Is she not lovely, Elinor?" asked Rupert, looking on them both with pride.
"Very!" was the laconic and scarce audible answer; and the child was put aside again.
"Elinor," said Sinclair, with unusual animation, "rest assured this precious gift of Heaven is sent to us for good; our days of trouble are numbered. Peace and true enjoyment are promised in that brow."
A slight involuntary shudder thrilled the frame of the wife, as she disengaged herself from her husband's embrace. She rose to retire.