and earnest, that Rosamond was startled, and did not answer for an
instant.

When she did, she said, "I beg your pardon; it is Mr. Browning who is
twenty-eight."

"Ah, yes, I did not quite understand you. I'm a little hard of
hearing. Who is Mr. Browning?"

The voice had assumed its usually soft, smooth tone, and Rosamond
could not see the rapid beatings of the heart, nor the eager curiosity
lurking in the glittering black eyes. The lady _seemed_ indifferent,
and smoothed carelessly the rich Valenciennes lace, which edged the
sleeve of her cambric wrapper.

"Did you tell me who Mr. Browning was, dear?" and the black eyes
wandered over the counterpane looking everywhere but at Rosamond, so
fearful was their owner lest they should betray the interest she felt
in the answer.

"Mr. Browning," said Rosamond, "is--is--I hardly know what he is to
me. I went to his house to live when I was a little, friendless
orphan, and he very kindly educated me, and made me what I am. I live
with him still at Riverside." "Ye-es--Riverside--beau-ti-ful name--his
country--seat--I--sup-pose," the words dropped syllable by syllable
from the white lips, but there was no quiver in the voice--no ruffle
upon her face.

Raising herself upon her elbow, the lady continued, "Pray, don't think
me fidgety, but won't you please open that shutter. I did not think it