disclosure. He now dreaded a scene in which
(unaware that she had left the house) he
imagined Anna might bear a part. I was
continued in this suspicion when, on rising
to retire for the night, I caught his appealing
look, and was induced at his entreaty
to resume my seat for a further half-hour.

My mother rang the bell. "I, at least,
must leave you. I have exceeded my usual
hour. Tell Martha"—to the servant who
approached—"tell Martha to wait for me in
my room. She will attend me for the
future."

As she said this, she fixed her eyes on
Garston. He made no comment, and showed
no surprise. A slight flush of indignation
rose to her brow; but she trembled.

"Are you aware, Philip, that Anna has
left me?" she said.

"Aware! How could that be?
Impossible!"

"True. The child is dear to me, and I
have done for the best. She gave me
reasons which I deemed sufficient, and I have
studied her welfare. And now, Mr. Garston,
not another word of this. I thought to have
spoken to you alone; but it is as well as it
is. Good-night!"

So saying, my mother arose. Mr. Garston
did not, as was his wont, spring to the door,
nor leave his wife till she was in the hands
of her maid. That was my task this
evening.

"Mr. Garston looks very ill," she said, as
she entered her chamber. " Prevail upon
him to retire at once." She sighed heavily
when she kissed me.

On my return to the parlour, I found that
Garston had emptied the decanter. He was
leaning against the wall, his hands pressed
against his head. On seeing me, he said
with unnatural quickness, " I would have
you to believe that there is nothing whatever
the matter with me. Trifles
sometimes strike upon the delicate fibres of the
mind, and make them give forth plaintive
memories. The tone of your mother's voice
overcame me a minute since. She is an
angel of goodness—of beneficence past
expression."

In spite of my distrust of Garston, I was
touched. " She is most kind, affectionate,
and gentle," I observed.

"Words that belong to many," he replied.
"Let them wear such praise as may be woven
out of them. They apply not to her, save
with a meagre and a detracting insufficiency.
Love! I shall not profane my soul by
supposing that such a passion could issue from
it, to be offered to her. Mine is worship—
adoration!"

The tones of his voice were in ill accordance
with the words to which they gave such
singular expression. His actions were no less
inappropriate. If somebody had put him
upon self-justification, he could not have been
more vehement.

"I tell you what, Arthur," he said, taking
a chair by my side, and lowering his voice,
after looking round the room suspiciously,
as if he were fearful of being overheard.
"I was not surprised—not at all—when your
mother told me that Anna is gone. I have
been expecting this a long time. We shall
probably never hear of her again."

"Why should you suspect this ? "

"Ungrateful, sir—ungrateful, and malignant.
She has long been endeavouring to
create disunion between your mother and
myself. No doubt she did so to-day, and
was dismissed accordingly."

This rekindled my curiosity.

"I can hardly think that," I remarked.
"My mother was very fond of Anna."

He was silent for some moments. At
length, he said abruptly:

"It was my fear lest your mother should
be discomposed by this event, that was partly
the cause of my illness."

"Indeed!—before you knew it?"

He turned very pale. " I had long expected
it," he answered quickly, " I told you so.
Did you not hear me? But come—let us
to bed. I wish her no ill—far from it. May
she be happy."

We took our candles and went together
up-stairs. As we stood at his chamber door, I
could not help remarking upon his extreme
illness.

"It will pass off," he said. "I have a
cordial here which will set all to rights.
You get to bed. You will soon be asleep."
Good night."

He entered his chamber and closed the
door. As he walked to the further end of
the room I heard him ejaculate something
passionately.

When in my bedroom, I felt no disposition
to sleep. I sat down, therefore, and turned
over in my mind the extraordinary scene that
had passed before me during the last few
hours. On a review of the whole, and of the
inferences I had attempted to draw from every
word, every gesture, every change of countenance
of the chief actor, I was compelled to
abandon the conclusion at which I had
previously arrived, without obtaining any ground
on which to build another. What doubts
and suspicions arose in my mind—although
I remember them well—it is needless
to relate, since they were wide of the
truth.

A considerable time must have elapsed
since I had first given way to my reflections;
for, when a sense of dullness awoke me out
of them, I discovered that my candle had
burnt out. There was, however, abundance
of light. The moon had sketched the shadow
of the window across the floor and on the
wall; and, looking on my watch, I saw
distinctly that it was past two. The silence
was of an intensity which imposes itself upon
your every movement. I walked softly
towards the bed. What noise is that?