"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!"




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