My aunt looked up from her plate with a little start—not interested, as I was prepared to hear, in the serious question of luncheon, but in the opinion which my medical adviser was likely to give of the state of my health.
"I am anxious to hear what Mr. Grosse says about you to-morrow," the old lady began. "I shall insist on his giving me a far more complete report of you than he gave last time. The recovery of your sight appears to me, my dear, to be quite complete."
"Do you want me to be cured, aunt, because you want to get away?" I asked. "Are you weary of Ramsgate?"
Miss Batchford's quick temper flashed at me out of Miss Batchford's bright old eyes.
"I am weary of keeping a letter of yours," she answered, with a look of disgust.
"A letter of mine!" I exclaimed.
"Yes. A letter which is only to be given to you, when Mr. Grosse pronounces that you are quite yourself again."
Oscar—who had not taken the slightest interest in the conversation thus far—suddenly stopped, with his fork half way to his mouth; changed color; and looked eagerly at my aunt.
"What letter?" I asked. "Who gave it to you? Why am I not to see it until I am quite myself again?"
Miss Batchford obstinately shook her head three times, in answer to those three questions.