ped her head upon his shoulder.

* * * * *

When once Richard's health had taken a turn for the better, it began
very rapidly to improve. "Until he is quite well," Gertrude said, one
day, to her accepted suitor, "I had rather he heard nothing of our
engagement. He was once in love with me himself," she added, very
frankly. "Did you ever suspect it? But I hope he will have got better of
that sad malady, too. Nevertheless, I shall expect nothing of his good
judgment until he is quite strong; and as he may hear of my new
intentions from other people, I propose that, for the present, we
confide them to no one."

"But if he asks me point-blank," said the Major, "what shall I answer?"

"It's not likely he'll ask you. How should he suspect anything?"

"O," said Luttrel, "Clare is one that suspects everything."

"Tell him we're not engaged, then. A woman in my position may say what
she pleases."

It was agreed, however, that certain preparations for the marriage
should meanwhile go forward in secret; and that the marriage itself
should take place in August, as Luttrel expected to be ordered back into
service in the autumn. At about this moment Gertrude was surprised to
receive a short note from Richard, so feebly scrawled in pencil as to be
barely legible. "Dear Gertrude," it ran, "don't come to see me just yet.
I'm not fit. You would hurt me, and _vice versa_. God bless you! R.
CLARE." Miss Whittaker explained his request, by the supposition that a
report had come to him of Major Luttrel's late assiduities (which it was
impossible should go unobserved); that, leaping at the worst, he had
taken her engagement for granted; and that, under this impression, he
could not trust himself to see her. She despatched him an answer,
telling him that she would await his pleasure, and that, if the doctor
would consent to his having letters, she would meanwhile occasionally
write to him. "She will give me good advice," thought Richard
impatiently; and on this point, accordingly, she received no account of
his wishes. Expecting to leave her house and close it on her marriage,
she spent many hours in wandering sadly over the meadow-paths and
through the woodlands which she had known from her childhood. She had
thrown aside the last ensigns of filial regret, and now walked sad and
splendid in the uncompromising colors of an affianced bride. It would
have seemed to a stranger that, for a woman who had freely