She smiled affectionately on him, and often sat on a stool at his knee,
and glided her hand into his.

He was not a little pleased, and said to himself, "She is coming round
to common-sense."

Now, on the contrary, she was farther from it than ever.

At last he got the clew. One afternoon he met Mr. Wyman coming out of
the villa. Mr. Wyman was the consulting surgeon of that part.

"What! anybody ill?" said Mr. Lusignan. "One of the servants?"

"No; it is Miss Lusignan."

"Why, what is the matter with her?"

Wyman hesitated. "Oh, nothing very alarming. Would you mind asking her?"

"Why?"

"The fact is, she requested me not to tell you: made me promise."

"And I insist upon your telling me."

"And I think you are quite right, sir, as her father. Well, she is
troubled with a little spitting of blood."

Mr. Lusignan turned pale. "My child! spitting of blood! God forbid!"