"There are topics of which we--your mother, sister, and
brothers--never speak, even to one another. You may trust us that
far," rejoined Herbert, emphatically. "Nor do I see what we can do,
except wait for other proof that Mabel really knows anything beyond
a name she has picked up at random and never, to my knowledge,
repeated, save in her ravings. Should she recover, the test can be
easily applied, and we can judge then, how to handle the dilemma."
"Should she recover!" He said the words reluctantly, as loth to
express the doubt.
His sister's lips twitched nervously into a sinister smile. It was
as if she would have whispered, had she dared, "Heaven forbid!"
"You have chosen a toilsome and a perilous path, Clara," he resumed,
by and by. "I do not wonder that you are, with all your courage and
sanguine trust in your own powers, sometimes disquieted, and often
weary."
"Who says that I am ever weary? And did you ever know me to disquiet
myself in vain?" with the low, musical ripple of laughter that
belonged to her sunniest mood. "Had I been born in the classic age,
I should have been a devout disciple of Epicurus. Don't imagine that
my success has not, thus far, amply repaid me for my toil and
ingenuity. Having lived upon excitement all my days, I should starve
without it. Pleasure, like safety, is the dearer for being plucked
from that evergreen nettle, Danger!"