He turned into the shrubbery paths, leaving Ellinor to take her father into the quietness of his own room, there to lie down and shake off his headache.
Ralph walked along, ruminating in gloomy mood as to what was to be done; how he could best extricate himself from the miserable relation in which he had placed himself by giving way to impulse.

Almost before he was aware, a little hand stole within his folded arms, and Ellinor's sweet sad eyes looked into his.
"I have put papa down for an hour's rest before dinner," said she.

"His head seems to ache terribly." Ralph was silent and unsympathising, trying to nerve himself up to be disagreeable, but finding it difficult in the face of such sweet trust.
"Do you remember our conversation last autumn, Ellinor ?" he began at length.
Her head sunk.

They were near a garden-seat, and she quietly sat down, without speaking.
"About some disgrace which you then fancied hung over you ?" No answer.
"Does it still hang over you ?" "Yes!" she whispered, with a heavy sigh.
"And your father knows this, of course ?" "Yes!" again, in the same tone; and then silence.
"I think it is doing him harm," at length Ralph went on, decidedly.
"I am afraid it is," she said, in a low tone.
"I wish you would tell me what it is," he said, a little impatiently.

"I might be able to help you about it." "No! you could not," replied Ellinor.