"Is Mr. Chandos gone, do you know, Miss?"

The question came from Hill, who put her head in at the oak-parlour to make it.

"He rode away not three minutes ago."

"Dear me! My lady wanted him to call somewhere else. I suppose a note must be posted."

"Stay an instant, Mrs. Hill," I said, detaining her. "There's a new companion wanted, is there not, for Mrs. Chandos?"

"Of course there is," returned Hill. "What of it?"

"Can I see Lady Chandos?"

Hill turned hard directly, facing me resolutely.

"Now, Miss, you listen: we have had that discussion once before, and we don't want it gone over again. So long as my lady keeps her rooms, neither you nor anybody else can be admitted to her; you wouldn't be if you paid for it in gold. And I'm much surprised that a young lady, calling herself a lady, should persist in pressing it."

"Hill, I am not pressing it. I only asked the question: As I cannot see Lady Chandos, will you deliver a message to her for me? If I can be of any use in taking the duties of companion to Mrs. Chandos in this temporary need, I shall be glad to be so, and will do my very best."

To see the countenance with which Hill received these words, was something comical: the open mouth, the stare of astonishment.

"You take the duties of companion to Mrs. Chandos!" uttered she, at length. "Bless the child! you little know what you ask for."

"But will you mention it to Lady Chandos?"

Hill vouchsafed no answer. She cast a glance of pity on my ignorance or presumption, whichever she may have deemed it, and quietly went out of the room.

That it was perfectly useless persisting, or even thinking of the affair further, I saw, and got out my writing-desk. Not a word had come to me from Mrs. Paler, not a hint at payment; and I wrote a civil request that she would kindly forward me the money due.

This over, I sat, pen in hand, deliberating whether to write or not to Emily de Mellissie, when a loud ring came to the house-door. One of the footmen crossed the hall to answer it.

"Is Lady Chandos at home?" I heard demanded, in a ladylike and firm voice.

"Her ladyship is at home, ma'am," answered Joseph, "but she does not receive visitors."

"I wish to see her."

"She is ill, madam; not able to see any one."

"Lady Chandos would admit me. My business is of importance. In short, I must see her."

Joseph seemed to hesitate.

"I'll call Mrs. Hill, and you can see her, ma'am," he said, after a little pause. "But I feel certain you cannot be admitted to my lady."

She was ushered by Joseph into the oak parlour. A good-looking woman, as might be seen through her black Chantilly veil, dressed in a soft black silk gown and handsome shawl. She was of middle height, portly, and had a mass of fiery red hair, crÊpÉ on the temples, and taken to the back of her head. I rose to receive her. She bowed, but did not lift her veil; and it struck me that I had seen her somewhere before.

"I presume that I have the honour of speaking to a Miss Chandos?"

"I am not Miss Chandos. Will you take a seat?"

"I grieve to hear that Lady Chandos is ill. Is she so ill that she cannot see me?"

What I should have answered I scarcely know, and was relieved by the entrance of Hill. The visitor rose.

"I have come here, some distance, to request an interview with Lady Chandos. I hear she is indisposed; but not, I trust, too much so to grant it to me."

"I'm sorry you should have taken the trouble," bluntly returned Hill, who was in one of her ungracious moods. "My lady cannot see any one."

"My business with her is of importance."

"I can't help that. If all England came, Lady Chandos could not receive them."

"To whom am I speaking?—if I may inquire," resumed the lady.

"I am Mrs. Hill. The many-years' confidential attendant of Lady Chandos."

"You share her entire confidence?"

"Her entire confidence, and that of the family."

"I have heard of you. It is not every family who possesses so faithful a friend."

"Anything you may have to say to her ladyship, whatever its nature, you can, if you please, charge me with," resumed Hill, completely ignoring the compliment. "I do not urge it, or covet it," she hastily added, in an uncompromising tone. "I only mention it because it is impossible that you can see Lady Chandos."

"Mrs. Chandos requires a companion, at the present moment, to replace one who has gone away ill."

"What of that?" returned Hill.

"I have come to offer myself for the appointment," said the visitor, handing her card, which Hill dropped on the table without looking at. "I flatter myself I shall be found eligible."

Hill looked surprised, and I felt so. Only a candidate for the vacant place?—after all that circumlocution!

"Why could you not have said at first what you wanted?" was Hill's next question, put with scant politeness. Indeed, she seemed to resent both the visit and the application as a personal affront. "I don't think you'll suit, madam."

"Why do you think I shall not?"

"And we are about somebody already. Mr. Chandos is gone to inquire for her now."

A flush, and a shade of disappointment, immediately hid under a smile, appeared on the lady's face. I felt sorry for her. I thought perhaps she might be wanting a home.

"Mr. Chandos may not engage her," observed the visitor.

"That's true enough," acknowledged Hill. "Yet she would have suited well; for she is not a stranger to the Chandos family."

"Neither am I," quietly replied the applicant. "My name is Penn—if you will have the goodness to look at the card—Mrs. Penn."

"Penn? Penn?" repeated Hill, revolving the information, but paying no attention to the suggestion. "I don't recognise the name. I remember nobody bearing it who is known to us."

"Neither would Lady Chandos recognise it, for personally I am unknown to her. When I said I was no stranger to the Chandos family, I meant that I was not strange to certain unpleasant events connected with it. That dreadful misfortune——"

"It's not a thing to be talked of in the light of day," shrieked Hill; putting up her hands to stop the words. "Have you not more discretion than that? Very fit, you'd be, as companion to young Mrs. Chandos!"

"Do not alarm yourself for nothing," rejoined Mrs. Penn, with soothing coolness. "I was not going to talk of it, beyond the barest allusion: and the whole world knows that the Chandos family are not as others. I would only observe that I am acquainted with everything that occurred; all the details; and therefore I should be more eligible than some to reside at Chandos."

"How did you learn them?" asked Hill.

"Lady Chandos had once an intimate friend—Mrs. Sackville; who is now dead. I was at Mrs. Sackville's when the affair happened, and become cognizant of all through her. Perhaps Lady Chandos may deem it worth while to see me, if you tell her this."

"How can she see you, when she's confined to her bed?" irritably responded Hill, who appeared fully bent upon admitting none to the presence of Lady Chandos. The very mention of it excited her anger in a most unreasonable manner, for which I could see no occasion whatever.

More talking. At its conclusion, Hill took the card up to Lady Chandos; also the messages of the stranger; one of which was, that she would prove a faithful friend in the event of being engaged. Hill returned presently, to inquire how Mrs. Penn heard that a companion to Mrs. Chandos was required; that lady replied that she had heard it accidentally at Marden. She had lived but in three situations, she said: with Mrs. Sackville, Mrs. James, both of whom were dead, and at present she was with Mrs. Howard, of Marden, who would personally answer all inquiries.

Hill appeared to regard this as satisfactory. She noted the address given, and accompanied Mrs. Penn to the portico, who declined the offer of refreshments. They spoke together for some minutes in an undertone, and then Mrs. Penn walked away at a brisk pace, wishing, she said, to catch the omnibus that would presently pass Chandos gates on its way to the station. I put my head out at the window, and gazed after her, trying to recall, looking at her back, what I had not been able to do looking at her face. Hill's voice interrupted me.

"Is not there something rather queer about that person's looks, Miss Hereford?"

"In what way, Hill? She is good-looking."

"Well, her face struck me as being a curious one. What bright red hair she's got!—quite scarlet!—and I have heard say that red hair is sometimes deceitful. It is her own, though: for I looked at it in the sunlight outside."

"She puts me in mind of some one I have seen, and I cannot recollect who. It is not often you see red hair with those very light blue eyes."

"I never saw hair so shiny-red in all my life," returned Hill; "it looks just as if it had been burnished. She seems straightforward and independent. We shall see what the references say, if it comes to an inquiry."

"If you and Lady Chandos would but let me try the situation, Hill! I'm sure I should suit Mrs. Chandos as well as this lady would. I am only twenty; but I have had experience one way or another."

As if the words were a signal to drive her away, Hill walked off. I wrote to Madame de Mellissie, finishing a drawing, and got through the afternoon; going up to dress at half-past five.

Now that Lady Chandos was secluded, and Mr. Chandos my sole dinner companion, instinct told me that full dress was best avoided. So I put on my pretty pink barÉge, with its little tucker of Honiton lace at the throat, and its falling cuffs of Honiton lace at the wrists. Nothing in my hair but a bit of pink ribbon. I had not worn anything but ribbon since I came to Chandos.

The dinner waited and I waited, but Mr. Chandos did not come. I had seen a covered tray carried upstairs by Hickens; at the door of the west wing Hill would relieve him of it, the invariable custom. At the special request of Lady Chandos, Hickens alone went up there; the other men-servants never. Joseph carried up the meals for Mrs. Chandos and stayed to wait on her.

"Would you like to sit down without Mr. Chandos, Miss?" Hickens came to inquire of me when half-past six o'clock had struck.

No, I did not care to do that. And the time went on again; I wondering what was detaining him. By-and-by I went out of doors in the twilight, and strolled a little way down the open carriage drive. Surely Mr. Chandos's prohibition could not extend to the broad public walk. It was not so pleasant an evening as the previous one; clouds chased each other across the sky, a dim star or two struggled out, the air was troubled, and the wind was sighing and moaning in the trees.

There broke upon my ear the footsteps of a horse. I did not care that its master should see me walking there, and turned to gain the house. But—what sort of a speed was it coming at? Why should Mr. Chandos be riding in that break-neck fashion? Little chance, in truth, that I could outstrip that! So I stepped close to the side trees, and in another moment Black Knave tore furiously by without its rider, the bridle trailing on the ground.

Mr. Chandos must have met with an accident; he might be lying in desperate need. Where could it have happened? and where was the groom who had gone out in attendance on him? I ran along at my swiftest speed, and soon saw a dark object in the distance, nearly as far as the entrance-gates. It was Mr. Chandos trying to raise himself.

"Are you hurt?" I asked, kneeling down beside him.

"Some trifling damage, I suppose. How came you here, Miss Hereford?"

"I saw the horse gallop in, and ran to see what the accident might be, sir. How did it happen?"

"Get up, child. Get up, and I will tell you."

"Yes, sir," I said, obeying him.

"I was riding fast, being late, and in passing this spot, some creature—I should say 'devil' to any one but a young lady—darted out of those trees there, and threw up its hands with a noise right in front of my horse, to startle it, or to startle me. Black Knave reared bolt upright, bounded forward, and I lost my seat. I had deemed myself a first-rate horseman before to-night; but I was sitting carelessly."

"Was it a man?"

"To the best of my belief, it was a woman. The night is dusk; and I saw things less accurately than I might have done in a more collected moment. It was a something in a grey cloak, with a shrill voice. I wonder if you could help me up?"

"I will do my best."

I stooped, and he placed his hands upon me, and raised himself. But it appeared that he could not walk: but for holding on to me, he would have fallen.

"I believe you must let me lie on the ground again, and go and send assistance, Miss Hereford. Stay: who's this?"

It was one of the servants, Lizzy Dene, who had been, as was subsequently explained, on an errand to the village. She called out in dismayed astonishment when she comprehended the helpless position of Mr. Chandos.

"Now don't lose your wits, Lizzy Dene, but see what you can do to help me," he cried. "With you on one side, and Miss Hereford on the other, perhaps I may make a hobble of it."

The woman put her basket down, concealing it between the trees, and Mr. Chandos laid his hand upon her shoulder, I helping him on the other side. She was full of questions, calling the horse all sorts of treacherous names. Mr. Chandos said the horse was not to blame, and gave her the explanation that he had given me.

"Sir, I'd lay a hundred guineas that it was one of those gipsy jades!" she exclaimed. "There's a lot of them 'camped on the common."

"I'll gipsy them, should it prove so," he answered. "Miss Hereford, I am sorry to lean upon you so heavily. The order of things is being reversed. Instead of the knight supporting the lady, the lady is bearing the weight of the knight."

"Where was your groom, sir?" I inquired. "He went abroad with you."

"Yes, but I despatched him on an errand, and rode back alone."

"Should you know the woman again, sir?" asked Lizzy.

"I think I should know her scream. It was as shrill as a sea-gull's. Her head was enveloped in some covering that concealed her face; probably the hood of the grey cloak."

"Who's to know that it was not a man?" resumed Lizzy Dene.

"If so, he wore petticoats," said Mr. Chandos. "A seat at last!" he added, as we approached one. "I will remain here whilst you go and send two of the men."

"Can't we get you on further, sir?" said Lizzy.

"No. I have taxed your strength too much in this short distance. And my own also, through endeavouring to ease my weight to you."

In point of fact, the weight had been felt, for the one foot seemed quite powerless. He sat down on the bench, his brow white and moist with pain, and motioned to us to go on. "I think they had better bring my mother's garden-chair," he said.

"I'll run and send it," cried Lizzy. "Miss had better stop with you, sir."

"What for?" asked Mr. Chandos.

"Look you here, sir. That woman, whoever she might have been, was trying to do you an injury; to cause you to lose your life, I should say; and the chances are that she's concealed somewhere about here still. Look at the opportunities for hiding there are here! Why a whole regiment of gipsies and murderers and thieves might be skulking amid the trees, and us none the wiser till they showed themselves out with guns and knives. That woman—which I'll be bound was a man—may be watching to come out upon you, sir, if you can be caught by yourself."

Mr. Chandos laughed, but Lizzy Dene seemed in anything but a laughing mood. "I will stay with you, sir," I said, and sat down resolutely on the bench. Lizzy went off with a nod.

"Now, Miss Hereford, you and I have an account to settle," he began, as her footsteps died away in the distance. "Why am I 'sir' again?"

"Lizzy Dene was present," I answered, giving him the truth. I had not liked that she should see me familiar with him—putting myself, as it were, on a level with Mr. Chandos; and in truth the word still slipped out at odd times in my shyness. Lizzy Dene might have commented upon the omission in the household: but this I did not say. Mr. Chandos turned to look at me.

"Never mind who is present, I am not 'sir' to you. I beg you to recollect that, Miss Hereford. And now," he continued, taking my hand, "how am I to thank you?"

"For what?"

"For coming and looking for me. I might have lain until morning, inhaling the benefit of the night dews; or until that grey witch had 'come out again with a gun' and finished me."

The last words, a repetition of Lizzy Dene's, were spoken in joke. I laughed.

"You would soon have been found, without me, Mr. Chandos. Lizzy Dane was not many moments after me, and scores of others will be coming in before the night is over."

"I don't know about the 'scores.' But see how you destroy the romance of the thing, Miss Hereford! I wish there was a probability that the woman had gone into hiding in the groves of Chandos; I would soon have her hunted out of them."

"Do you suppose it was one of the gipsies?"

"I am at a loss for any supposition on the point," he replied. "I am unconscious of having given offence to any person or persons."

"Do you think you are much injured?"

"There are worse misfortunes in hospitals than the injury to my foot. I believe it to be nothing but a common sprain, although it has disabled me. The pain——"

"That's great, I am sure."

"Pretty well. I should not like you to experience it."

That it was more than pretty well, I saw, for the drops were coursing down his face. The men soon came up with the garden-chair, and Mr. Chandos sent me on.

He was laid on the sofa in the oak-parlour. Hill examined the foot and bound it up, one of the grooms having been despatched for a medical man. He arrived after dinner—which was taken in a scrambling sort of manner—a Mr. Dickenson, from the village, who was left with Mr. Chandos.

At tea time, when I went in again, things looked comfortable. The surgeon had pronounced it to be but a sprain, and Mr. Chandos was on the sofa, quietly reading, a shaded lamp at his elbow. From his conversation with Hill, I gathered that the lady he had been inquiring after, Miss White, had taken a situation at a distance, and could not come to Chandos.

"We have had another applicant after the place, Mr. Harry," observed Hill who was settling the cushion under his foot. And she proceeded to tell him the particulars of Mrs. Penn's visit.

"Is she likely to suit?"

"My lady thinks so. Mr. Harry,"—dropping her voice to a whisper, which she, no doubt, thought would be inaudible to me, busy with the tea-cups at the table ever so far-off—"she knows all about that past trouble."

Mr. Chandos laid down his book and looked at her.

"Every unhappy syllable of it, sir; more than my lady knows herself," whispered Hill. "She mentioned one or two particulars to me which I'm sure we had never known; and she said she could tell my lady more than that."

"That is extraordinary," observed Mr. Chandos, in the same subdued tone. "Who is this Mrs. Penn? Whence could she have heard anything?"

"From Mrs. Sackville. You must remember her, sir. She stayed a week with us about that time."

"This comes of my mother's having made a confidant of Mrs. Sackville!" he muttered. "I always thought Mrs. Sackville a chattering woman. But it does not account for Mrs. Penn's knowing the particulars that my mother does not know," he added, after a pause. "I shall be curious to see Mrs. Penn."

"That's just the question I put to her, sir: where Mrs. Sackville could have learnt these details. Mrs. Penn answered that she had them from Sir Thomas himself. Therefore, I conclude, Sir Thomas must have revealed to her what he spared my lady."

Mr. Chandos shook his head with a proud, repellant air.

"I don't believe it, Hill. However Mrs. Sackville might have learnt them, rely upon it it was not from Sir Thomas. She was no favourite of his."

"Misfortunes never come singly," resumed Hill, quitting the subject with a sort of grunt. "Mrs. Freeman could not have fallen ill at a worse time."

"And now I am disabled! Temporarily, at least."

"Oh, well, sir, let's hope for the best," cried she, getting up from her knees. "When troubles come, the only plan is to look them steadily in the face, and meet them bravely."

"It is rather curious, though," cried Mr. Chandos, looking at Hill.

"What is, sir?"

"That I should be laid aside now. It has been so each time. There's something more than chance in it."

Hill appeared to understand. I did not. As she was quitting the room, Hickens came in.

"Mr. Dexter has called, sir," he said. "Would you like to see him?"

"Does he want anything particular?" asked Mr. Chandos.

"No business, sir. He heard of this accident to you, and hurried here," he says.

"Let him come in. You need not leave us, Miss Hereford," he added to me, for I was rising. "Dexter will thank you for a cup of tea."

"Well, now, Mr. Chandos, how was this?" cried the agent, as he bustled in, wiping his red face. Mr. Dexter gave me the idea of being always in a hurry.

"I can hardly tell you," replied Mr. Chandos. "I don't quite know myself."

"News was brought into my office that Mr. Chandos's horse had thrown him, and he was supposed to be dying. So I caught up my hat and came rushing off. Hickens says it is only an injury to the ankle."

"And that's enough, Dexter, for it is keeping me a prisoner. However, it might have been as you heard, so I must not grumble. The question is, what ill-working jade caused it?"

"Ill-working jade?" repeated Mr. Dexter. "Was it not an accident? I don't understand."

"An accident maliciously perpetrated. Some venomous spirit in the guise of a woman sprang before my horse with a shouting scream, and threw up her arms in his face. Black Knave wont stand such jokes. I was riding carelessly, and lost my seat."

"Bless my heart!" exclaimed Mr. Dexter, after a pause, given to digest the words. "Who was it? Is she taken?"

"A tramp, probably. Though why she should set on me I am unable to conjecture. Where she vanished to, or what became of her, I know not. I raised myself on my elbow directly I could collect my wits, which I assure you were somewhat scattered, but the coast was already clear: and I had not been down a minute then."

"What was the woman like?" pursued the agent, as I handed him some tea.

"I can tell you nothing of that. She wore a grey cloak, or something that looked like one, which enveloped her person and shaded her face. I should not know her if she stood before me this minute."

"Was the cloak assumed for the purpose of disguise, sir, think you?" eagerly questioned the agent, who seemed to take the matter up with much warmth, as if he had a suspicion.

"It looked uncommonly like it."

"Then I tell you what, Mr. Chandos; it was no ordinary tramp, or gaol-bird of that description. Depend upon it, you must look nearer home."

"Nearer home!" repeated Mr. Chandos. "Do you allude to our household servants?"

"I don't allude to any party or parties in particular, sir. But when a disguise is assumed for the purpose of molesting a gentlemen, riding to his home in the dusk of night, be assured that the offender is no stranger. This ought to be investigated, Mr. Chandos."

"I sent two of the men to seek round about, and they scoured the plantations near the spot, but without result. So far as they could ascertain, no live body, worse than a hare was concealed there."

"I could understand if you were obnoxious to the tenants, or to any others, in the neighbourhood, but the exact contrary is the case," pursued Mr. Dexter, stirring his tea violently round and round. "The tenants often say they wish Mr. Chandos was their real landlord. Not that they have any cause of complaint against Sir Thomas; but Sir Thomas is a stranger to them, and you, sir, are in their midst; one, as it were, of themselves."

"Talking about tenants—and to leave an unprofitable subject, for we shall make nothing of it in the present stage of the affair," resumed Mr. Chandos—"I don't like the new tenant by the gates here, Dexter."

"No? Why not, sir?"

"And I should like to get rid of him."

Our visitor put his bread-and-butter down on the plate, and stared at Mr. Chandos, as if questioning whether he might be in jest or earnest.

"What is your objection to him, sir?" he asked, after a pause.

"I cannot state any objection in detail. I have seen the man, and I don't like him. How can he be got rid of, Dexter?"

"He cannot be got rid of at all, sir, until the lease is out—three years—unless he chooses to quit of his own accord. There's a clause in the lease that he can leave at the end of any twelvemonth by giving proper notice."

"That's his side—as regards the agreement. What is mine?"

"You have no power to dismiss him until the three years are up."

"How came you to draw up a one-sided deed, such as that?"

"Haines said his client wished to have the option of quitting at the end of any year, though he would probably continue for the three. In point of fact, Mr. Edwin Barley is a yearly tenant; but he wished to have the power in his own hands of remaining the three years. I did speak to you, Mr. Chandos, and you made no objection."

Mr. Chandos sat, twirling the watch-key and beautiful transparent seal that drooped from his gold chain. It was self-evident to him that what might appear to be just terms for any other man on the face of the earth who had offered himself as tenant, looked anything but just now that the tenant proved to be Mr. Edwin Barley.

"And the agreement is signed, of course?"

"Signed, sealed, and delivered," was the answer of Mr. Dexter, who had taken the remark as a question.

"Just so. And there are no legal means of getting rid of the man?"

"None at all, sir, for three years, if he pleases to stop. But, Mr. Chandos, he appears to me to be an exceedingly eligible tenant—so very wealthy and respectable a gentleman!"

"Wealthy and respectable though he may be, I would give a thousand pounds to be quit of him, Dexter."

"But why, sir?" repeated the agent, in surprise.

"He is not likely to prove an agreeable neighbour. I don't like the look of him."

"Pardon the suggestion, Mr. Chandos, but you are not obliged to have anything to do with him," returned the agent, who looked as though the views propounded were quite different from any he had ever met with. "So long as Mr. Edwin Barley keeps his house respectable and pays his rent, that's all you need know of him, sir, unless you like."

"What brought him to settle himself here?" abruptly asked Mr. Chandos.

"Well, I inquired once, but got no satisfactory answer. They say his own place by Nettleby is quite magnificent, compared to this house that he has taken. I remarked upon it to Haines. 'Gentlemen like to go about the country and please their fancy for change,' Haines answered me. Which is true enough, sir."

Mr. Chandos gave a sort of incredulous nod, and the agent rose.

"Now that I have seen you, sir, and had the pleasure of ascertaining that the injury is less than report said, I'll be going back again. But I shall keep my eyes open for a women in a grey cloak. If I meet one, I'll pounce upon her, as sure my name's Bob Dexter. Pray don't trouble yourself, young lady! I know my way out."

I had risen to ring the bell. Mr. Dexter was gone beforehand, and we heard the hall-door close after him with a sharp click.

Just as the tea-things were taken away, Lizzy Dene came in. The woman looked wild to-night; her eyes were shining as with fire; her dark cheeks had a glow in them as of fever; the bunches of black curls on either side were tangled; and she had not removed her bonnet and shawl before appearing in the presence of Mr. Chandos.

"I beg your pardon, sir!" she said, "but I thought I'd tell you where I've been to."

"Well?" returned Mr. Chandos, turning his head to her from the sofa.

"I couldn't get it out of my head, sir, that the woman who served you that trick must be one of the gipsies, so I just put my best foot foremost, and walked over to the common. They are encamped at the far end of it, down in the hollow amid the trees. Such a sight! A big tent lighted with a torch stuck in the ground, and four or five women and children in it, and straw beds in the corner, with brown rugs, and a pot a-boiling on the fire outside. But I had my walk for nothing; for the women seemed quiet and peaceable enough; one of them was sewing, and, so far as I saw, they had never a grey cloak between 'em. There was an old creature bent double, she could scarce bobble, and two young women with babies to their breasts, and there was a growing girl or two I'm bound to confess that none of them looked wicked enough to have been the one that set on you, sir."

"Well?" repeated Mr. Chandos, regarding Lizzy with some wonder. "What else?"

"Why, sir, this. If it was one of the gipsies that attacked you, she's not back at the camp yet; she must be in hiding somewhere; and most likely it's in these very grounds, where they're thickest. If all the men went out to beat the place, they might drop upon her."

There was something curiously eager about the woman as she spoke, with her cheeks and eyes glowing, and her tone full of passion. I think it struck Mr. Chandos. It certainly struck me and to a degree that set me wondering. But Mr. Chandos betrayed no curiosity, and answered with quiet decision.

"We will forget this, Lizzy Dene; at any rate for the present. I am tired of this subject; and I do not suppose it to have been any of the gipsies. Some poor mad woman, more probably, escaped from the county asylum. Don't trouble yourself about it further."

Lizzy looked hard at him, as if she would have said more, but finally withdrew in silence.

"Tired of everything, I think, to-night!" he added, with a weary sigh, as she closed the door. "Tired even of reading!"

"Can I do anything to amuse you, Mr. Chandos?" I asked, for he threw his book on the stand.

"Ay. Sit you down on that low chair, and tell me the stories of your past life, after the manner of fairy-tales."

The chair was on the opposite side to the sofa, and I sat down upon it. He made me come quite close to him, lest he should not hear. Which must have been said in jest, for his ears were quick. But I drew it nearer.

"Now for fairy-tale the first. How shall you begin?"

"I don't know how to begin, sir. My life has had no fairy-tales in it. I have not had a home, as other girls have."

"Not had a home!"

"I had one when I was a little girl. Mamma lived in a cottage in Devonshire, and I was with her."

"So you are a little Devonshire woman?"

"No; I was born in India. Mamma brought me over when I was three years old."

"And your father?"

"He had to stay behind in India. He was in the army. After that he sold out to come home, and died very soon. Mamma died when I was eleven, and since that I have been at school."

"Had you no relatives to offer you a home?"

"No!" And I felt my face flush as I thought of Mr. Edwin Barley. He must have noticed it: he was looking at me.

"No home all those years! How you must long for one!"

"I keep my longings down. It may never be my happiness to know a home; certainly there is no present prospect of it. I resign myself to my position, doing my duty, as it is placed before me, and not looking beyond it."

"What do you call your 'position'?"

"That of a governess."

"I should say you are of gentle blood?"

"Oh yes."

He paused. I paused. I saw that he expected I should tell him something more about myself and my family; and I would willingly have told all, but for having to bring in the names of Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Barley. The fear of doing that; of alluding to the dreadful events of the past, clung to me still as a nightmare. Mr. Chandos, who did not fail to detect the reluctance, concluded there must be some reason for it, not expedient to tell; he quitted the subject at once, with the innate delicacy of a refined man, and did not again, then or later, make allusion to my family.

"Well, now for the fairy-tales. Begin. If you don't tell me something worth hearing, I shall fall asleep."

I laughed; and related to him one or two short anecdotes of my school life, and then remembered the supper-scene at Miss Fenton's, and the setting on fire of Georgina Digges. He had grown interested in that, and we were both talking very fast, when the clock struck ten. I got up and put away the low chair.

"Good-night, sir."

"Good-night—miss!"

It made me laugh. He took my hand, kept it for a minute in his, and said he wished me pleasant dreams.

"I shall dream of a woman in a grey cloak. But, Mr. Chandos! in one sense, the accident is a good thing for you."

"You must explain how. I don't see it."

"With that disabled foot you may make sure of uninterrupted rest. There is no fear that you will leave your bed to-night to walk in the moonlight."

"You go to bed, and to sleep, and never mind looking for me in the moonlight; to-night, or any other night."

His mood had changed; his brow had grown angry, his voice stern. The thought of having alluded to his infirmity brought back all my humiliation.

"I beg your pardon, sir," I meekly said. And he released my hand without another word.

I thought of it all the time I was undressing; I thought of it after I was in bed. Not of that only, but of other things. If Mr. Edwin Barley was the enemy of the family, as hinted at by Mr. Chandos, and could do them at will irreparable injury; and if he, Edwin Barley, had thus brought himself into proximity, because he had learnt in some unaccountable manner that I was staying there, how they would have cause to detest me! Of course it might not be. Mr. Edwin Barley might have come for his own purposes to Chandos, irrespective of me. I could only hope it was so; but the doubt caused me most jealously to guard his name, as a connexion of mine, from Mr. Chandos.

I dropped into peaceful sleep. My last thought, as it stole over me, was to wonder whether Lizzy Dene and the other maids were watching from the turret-window for the ghost in the pine-walk.