Really mine was just now a strange life. A young girl—I was only that; young in experience as well as years—living in that house without any companion except Mr. Chandos. More unrestrained companionship could scarcely have existed between us had we been brother and sister. Our meals were taken together; he presiding at luncheon and dinner, I at breakfast and tea. The oak-parlour was our common sitting-room; the groves and glades of Chandos, glowing with the tints of autumn, our frequent walks. It was very pleasant; too pleasant; I don't say anything about its prudence.

Later, when I grew more conversant with the ways of the world and its exactions, I wondered that Lady Chandos had not seen its inexpediency. But that love should supervene on either side never crossed her thoughts; had it been suggested to her, she would have rejected the idea as entirely improbable: I was a schoolgirl, her son (as she had reason to think) was love-proof. In regard to other considerations, Mr. Chandos was one of those men with whom a young girl would be perfectly safe; and she knew it.

Three or four days passed on. Mr. Chandos had recovered from his lameness, and went to church with us on Sunday. Our order of going was, as usual, this: he walked by the side of Mrs. Chandos, almost in silence: I and Mrs. Penn behind. In a pew at right angles with ours sat Mr. Edwin Barley alone; and his dark stern eyes seemed to be fixed on me from the beginning of the service to the end.

Well from his lameness; but anything but well as to his health, if looks might be relied upon; he seemed to grow more shadowy day by day. What his illness was I could not think and might not ask: it certainly seemed on the mind more than the body. A conviction grew gradually upon me that some curious mystery, apart from the sleepwalking, did attach to Mr. Chandos; and the words I overheard spoken by Edwin Barley strengthened the impression: "That there is something to be discovered connected with him, and at this present time, I am absolutely certain of." What did he allude to?

Surely it was nothing of disgrace! As he sat there before me, with his calm pale face and its sweet expression, it was against the dictates of common sense to suppose that ill or wicked antecedents attached to him. No; I would not believe it, let Madam Penn say what she chose.

It was a lovely autumn morning to begin the week with. The fire burnt briskly in the grate, but the window, near which we sat, was open. Mr. Chandos seemed low and depressed. His moods were changeable: sometimes he would be lively, laughing, quite gay; as if he put away the inward trouble for a time. During breakfast, which he ate this morning nearly in silence, he took a letter from his pocket and glanced down its contents, heaving an involuntary sigh. I recognised it for one that had been delivered the previous morning: the name "Henry Amos" on the corner of the envelope proved the writer. I wondered then—I wonder still—why people put their names outside the letters they send, as some do.

"Does he write instructions to you still, Mr. Chandos?"

"Who? Dr. Amos? Well, yes; in a measure."

"I hope he thinks you are getting better?"

"I tell him that I am. You have forgotten the sugar. A small lump, please. Thank you."

It was ever so. If I did summon up courage to ask about his health he only turned it off. His tea did not want further sweetening more than mine did.

We were sent out that day for a drive in the large open carriage; Mrs. Chandos, Mrs. Penn, and I. It was the first time we had gone together. Mr. Chandos was away; attending some county meeting. It was nearly five when we got home. Later, when I had my hair down and dress off, getting ready for dinner, Mrs. Penn came in.

"Oh, this dreary life at Chandos!" she exclaimed, sinking into a chair, without any ceremony or apology for entering. "I am not sure that I can continue to put up with it."

"Dreary, do you find it?"

"It is dreary. It is not pleasant or satisfactory. Mrs. Chandos grows colder and more capricious; and you are not half the companion you might be. It was on the tip of my tongue just now to give her warning. If I do give it, I shall be off the next day. I never found a place dull in all my life before."

"Something has vexed you, perhaps, Mrs. Penn?"

"If it has, it's only a slight vexation. I made haste to write this as soon as we came in"—turning her left hand, in which lay a sealed letter—"and I find the letters are gone. I thought the man called for them at half-past five."

"No; at five."

"So Hickens has just informed me. What few letters I have had to write since I came have been done in the morning. It can't be helped; it must wait until to-morrow."

She put the letter into her bag, shutting it with a sharp click that told of vexation; a small morocco bag with a steel clasp and chain; took her keys from her pocket and locked it.

"What a pretty thing that is!"

"This reticule? Yes, it is pretty: and very convenient. Have you one?"

"Not like that. Mine is an ugly one, made out of a piece of carpet; I bought it ever so long ago at the fair at Nulle."

"Shall you ever go back to Nulle?"

"I should be there at this present time, but for a fever that has broken out at Miss Barlieu's. It is getting better, though; I heard from Miss Annette on Saturday."

"Fever, or not fever, I should say it would be a happy change for you from this dull place.

Dull! This! It was my Elysium. I felt like a guilty girl in my self-consciousness, and the bright colour stole over my face and neck.

"Allow me to fasten your dress for you."

I thanked her, but laughingly said that I was accustomed to dress myself. She laughed too; observed that schoolgirls generally could help themselves, having no choice upon the point, and turned to look from the window.

She stood there with her back to me until I was ready to go down, sometimes turning her head to speak. We quitted the room together, and she seemed to have recovered her good temper. I had reached the foot of the stairs when I happened to look up the well of the staircase. There was the face of Mrs. Penn, regarding me with a strange intensity. What did she see in me?

Is this to be a full confession? When my solitary dinner was brought in, and Hickens said his master dined at Warsall, I felt half sick with disappointment. What was I coming to? Something not good, I feared, if I could feel like that; and I sat down after dinner to take myself to task.

Why did I love him? That I could not help now; but I could help encouraging it. And yet—could I help it, so long as I stayed at Chandos? I foresaw how it would be: a short period of time—it could not be a long one—and Madame de Mellissie would be there and carry me away with her, and end it. I should get another situation, and never see or hear of Chandos again, or of him. Better go away at once than wait until my heart broke! better go to the fever, as Mrs. Penn had said!

"Why! What's the matter?"

He had come up to the open window, riding-whip in hand, having alighted at the gates, and left his horse to the groom. There was no possibility of concealment, and my face was blistered with crying.

"I felt a little dull, sir."

"Dull! Ah, yes; of course you do," he continued, as he came into the room, and stood with me at the window. "I wish I could be more with you, but duties of various kinds call me elsewhere."

The very thing I had been thinking ought not to be! My tears were dried, but I felt ashamed of my burning face.

"Would you please to let me have that money, Mr. Chandos?"

"What money?"

"Some I asked you for. Enough to take me to Nulle."

"You shall have as much money as you please, and welcome. But not to take you to Nulle."

"Oh, sir! I must go."

He paused, looking at me. "Will you tell me why you want to go there, knowing that it might be dangerous?"

"I have not anywhere else to go to. I don't suppose the fever would come near me. In all French schools there is, you know, an infirmary apart."

"Then your motive is to quit Chandos. Why?"

I did not speak. Only hung my head.

"Is it because you find it dull? Are you so unhappy in it?"

"It is not dull to me; only at moments. But I ought to leave it, because—because the longer I stay, the worse the going away will be."

But that I was confused and miserable, I should not have told him anything so near the truth. The words slipped from me. There was no reply, and I looked up to find his eyes fixed earnestly upon mine.

"Only think, sir, for yourself," I stammered. "I am but a governess, accustomed to be at work from morning until night. After this life of ease and idleness, how shall I be able to reconcile myself to labour again?"

"It seems to me that you ought to welcome this interval as a rest. You know best about that, of course. But, whether or not, there is no help for it. Do you think my mother would suffer you to go to the fever?"

"I don't know," I answered, with a catching sob.

"Yes, I think you do know. I should not."

"You are too kind to me, Mr. Chandos."

"Am I? Will you repay it by giving me some tea? I am going up to my mother, and shall expect it ready when I come down. Put out, and cool, mind, ready to drink. I am as thirsty as a fish."

I ran to the bell; he meant to forestal me, and his hand fell on mine as it touched the handle. He kept his there while he spoke.

"Can you not be happy at Chandos a little longer?"

"Oh, sir, yes. But it will only make the leaving worse when it comes."

"Well, that lies in the future."

Yes, it did lie in it. And in the throbbing bliss his presence brought, I was content to let it lie. Parting could not be worse in the future than it would be now.

The tea had time to get cold, instead of cool, for he stayed a long while in the west wing. He seemed very tired; did not talk much, and said good-night early.

It must have been getting on for eleven o'clock the next morning. Mr. Chandos had been asking me to sew a button on his glove. "They are always coming off," he cried, as he watched my fingers. "My belief is, they are just pitched on to the gloves, and left there. I have heard Harriet say the same; she sews them on in general."

"Why did you not give her this one?" I had been laughing, and was in high spirits; and until the words were out, it did not strike me that it was not quite the right thing for me to say, even in joke.

"Because I best like you to do it."

"There it is, sir. Are there any more?"

If there were, he had no time to give them me. A sharp decisive knock at the room door, and Mrs. Penn came in, looking pale and angry.

She has been coming to a rupture with Mrs. Chandos, thought I. But I was wrong.

It appeared, by what she began to say, that she had left, unintentionally, the small bag, or reticule as she called it, in my room the previous evening, and had not thought of it until just now. Upon sending one of the maids for it, she found it had been opened.

"Mrs. Penn!" I exclaimed.

"It's quite true, she rejoined, almost vehemently, as she held out the bag. Do you remember seeing me put the letter in the bag, Miss Hereford? The letter I was too late to send away?"

"Yes; I saw you put it in and lock the bag."

"Just so. Well, while I talked with you afterwards, I presume I must have let the bag slip on the window-seat; and forgot it. This morning, not long ago, I missed it, looked everywhere, and it was only by tracing back to when I last remembered to have had it, that I thought of your room, and that I might inadvertently have left it there. I sent Emma to look; and when she brought me the bag, I found it had been opened."

"Opened!" I repeated.

"Opened," she fiercely affirmed. And then, perhaps our very calmness recalling her to herself, she went on in a quiet tone.

"I am sure you will make allowance for me if I appear a little excited. I do not seek to cast suspicion upon any one: but I cannot deny that I am both annoyed and angry. You would be so yourself, Mr. Chandos, did such a thing happen to you," she added, suddenly turning to him.

"Take a seat, and explain to me what it is that has happened," replied Mr. Chandos, handing her a chair. "I scarcely comprehend."

"Thank you, no," she said, rejecting the seat. "I cannot stay to sit down, I must return to Mrs. Chandos; it was she who recommended me to come and speak to Miss Hereford. Upon Emma's bringing me the reticule I unlocked it, suspecting nothing, and——"

"I thought you said it had been opened, Mrs. Penn?"

"It had been opened. You shall hear. The first thing I saw was my letter, and the read seal looked cracked across. I thought perhaps the bag had fallen fiercely to the ground; but upon my looking at it more attentively I saw it had been opened. See."

She put the envelope into Mr. Chandos's hand for examination. It had been opened with a penknife, cut underneath, and afterwards fastened down with gum. Of this there was no doubt; part of the letter had also been cut.

"This is very extraordinary," said Mr. Chandos, as he turned the envelope about. It was addressed to London, to a medical man.

"Yes, it is extraordinary, sir," said Mrs. Penn, with some slight temper, which I am sure he considered excusable. "I did. The note was a private note to the gentleman who has attended me for some years; I didn't write it for the perusal of the world. But that is not the chief question. There must be false keys in the house."

"Did you leave your key in the bag, Mrs. Penn?"

"No, sir. I had my keys in my pocket. The lock has not been hurt, therefore it can only have been opened with a false key."

Remembering my own boxes and Mr. Chandos's desk, I felt no doubt that false keys must be at hand. Mrs. Penn said she had not yet spoken to the servants, and Mr. Chandos nodded approval: he would wish to deal with it himself. For my part I had not seen the bag in my room, except in her possession, and did not notice whether she had carried it away or left it.

She quitted the parlour, taking the bag and note and envelope. Mr. Chandos called Hickens and desired that Emma should be sent to him. The girl arrived in some wonder. But she could tell nothing; except that she found the bag lying on the floor by the window-seat, and carried it at once to Mrs. Penn. Harriet was next questioned. She had seen the bag lying in the window-seat the previous evening, she said, when she put the room to rights after Miss Hereford went down to dinner, and left it there, drawing the curtains before it.

"Did you touch it?" asked Mr. Chandos.

"Yes, sir. I took it up in my hand, and thought what a pretty thing it was: I had never seen it before."

"Did you open it?"

"Open it? No, sir, that I did not. I think it was locked, for I saw there was a key-hole: at any rate, it was close shut. I did not keep it in my hands a moment, but put it down where I found it, and drew the curtains."

"Who else went into Miss Hereford's room last evening?"

"Why, sir, how can I tell?" returned Harriet, after a pause of surprise. "What I have to do in the room does not take five minutes, and I am not anigh it afterwards. Twenty folks might go in and out without my knowing of it."

That both the girls were innocent there could be no question. Then who was guilty? In undrawing the curtains that morning I must have pulled the bag off the window-seat, which caused me not to see it. Hill went into a fit of temper when she heard of the affair.

"I don't believe there's one of the maids would do such a thing, Mr. Harry. What should they want with other folk's letters? And where would they get gum from to stick them down?"

"There's some gum on my mantelpiece, Hill: I use it with my drawings," I said to her.

"Ah, well, gum or no gum, they'd not cut open letters," was Hill's reply, given with obstinacy.

"There must be false keys in the house, Mr. Chandos," I began, as Hill went out.

"There's something worse than that—a spy," was his answer. "Though the one implies the other."

And I thought I could have put my hand upon her—Lizzy Dene. But it was only a doubt. I was not sure. And, being but a doubt, I did not consider I ought to speak.

Some days elapsed with nothing particular to record, and then some money was missed. Mr. Chandos and I were together as usual in the oak-parlour. Opening his desk, he called out rather sharply, and I looked up from my work.

"So! they have walked into the trap, have they!" he cried, searching here and there in it. "I thought so."

"What is it, Mr. Chandos?" I asked, and he presently turned to me, quitting the table.

"These matters have been puzzling me, Miss Hereford. Is it a petty thief that we have in the house, one to crib lace and such trifles; or is it a spy? I have thought it may be both: such a thing is not beyond the bounds of possibility. A person who took Mrs. Penn's lace would not be likely to take my memorandum-book: for that must have been done to pry into my private affairs, or those of the Chandos family: and a spy, aiming at higher game, would keep clear of petty thefts. The taking of Mrs. Penn's letter, I mean the breaking its seal, I do not understand: but, before that was done, I marked some money and put it in my desk; two sovereigns and two half-crowns. They are gone."

"You locked the desk afterwards?"

"Yes. Now I shall act decisively. Mrs. Penn has thought me very quiet over her loss, I daresay, but I have not seen my way at all clear. I do not, truth to say, see it now."

"In what way, sir?"

"I cannot reconcile the one kind of loss with the other. Unless we have two false inmates among us. I begin to think it is so. Say nothing at all to any one, Miss Hereford."

He wrote a hasty note, directed it, and sealed it with the Chandos coat-of-arms; then ordered his own groom, James, into his presence.

"Saddle one of the horses for yourself, James. When you are ready, come round with him, and I will give you directions."

The man was soon equipped. He appeared leading the horse. Mr. Chandos went out, and I stood at the open window.

"Are you quite ready to go?"

"Quite, sir."

"Mount then."

The servant did as he was bid, and Mr. Chandos continued, putting the note he had written into his hands.

"Go straight to Warsall, to the police-station, and deliver this. Do not loiter."

James touched his hat, then his horse, and cantered off.

Ever since I had seen the police at Mr. Edwin Barley's, at the time of the death of Philip King, I had felt an invincible dread of them; they were always associated in my mind with darkness and terror. The gendarmes in France had not tended to reassure me; with their flashing uniform, their cocked hats, their conspicuous swords, and their fiery horses; but the police there were quite another sort of people, far more harmless than ours. The worst I saw of them was the never-ending warfare they kept up with the servant-maids for being late in washing before the doors in a morning. The cook at Miss Barlieu's, Marie, called them old women, setting them at defiance always: but one day they cited her before the tribunal, and she had to pay a fine of five francs.

The police arrived in the afternoon; two, in plain clothes; and Mr. Chandos was closeted with them alone. Then we heard—at least, I did—that the servants' pockets were to be examined, and their boxes searched. I was standing in the hall, looking wistful enough, no doubt, when Mr. Chandos and his two visitors came forth from the drawing-room.

"You appear scared," he stayed to say, smiling in my face. "Have no fear."

They were disappearing down the passage that led to the kitchens and thence to the servants' rooms above, when Mrs. Penn came in with her bonnet on. She gazed after the strangers.

"Those look just like police!" she whispered. "What have they come for?"

"About these losses, I believe. Mr. Chandos has again lost something from his desk."

"What! besides the first loss the other day?"

"Yes, he feels very much annoyed: and it is enough to make him feel so."

"I'd forgive a little bit of pilfering—that is, I would not be too harsh upon the thief," she remarked. "Pretty lace and such like vanities do bear their attractions. But when it comes to violating letters and private papers, that is essentially another affair. What are the police going to do in it? Do you know?"

"I believe the servants' boxes and pockets are about to be examined."

"I should think, then, my lace, at any rate, will come to light," she laughed, as she tripped up the stairs.

The process of searching seemed to be pretty long. Mr. Chandos was in the oak-parlour, when one of the officers, who seemed to be superior to the other, came in.

"Well, sir," said he, as he took the seat to which Mr. Chandos invited him, "there's no trace of any stolen property about the maids or their boxes. One or two of them had got some love-letters: they seemed precious more afraid of my reading them than of finding lace or money," he added, with a broad smile. "I just glanced over the epistles, enough to convince myself that there was nothing wrong: but there is no game more formidable to be found."

Mr. Chandos made no reply. I thought he looked puzzled.

"We have hitherto placed great trust in our servants," he observed, presently. "But the disappearance of these things is unaccountable."

"There does seem some mystery about it," returned the policeman. "You say, sir, that you are sure of the housekeeper."

"As sure as I am of myself."

"Shall we search the rooms in the front, above here, sir? Thieves have a trick of hiding things, you know."

"No," decisively replied Mr. Chandos. "My mother might hear you; I could not risk the annoyance to her in her sick state. Besides, the rooms have been fully searched by the housekeeper."

"Would you like a watch placed in the house, sir, unknown to the servants?"

"No, no," said Mr. Chandos. "It——"

The appearance of Mrs. Penn caused the pause. She came in, after knocking quietly at the door. Mr. Chandos rose; the officer rose.

"I beg your pardon for my interruption, Mr. Chandos. Will it not be better that the police"—slightly bowing to the one present—"should come up now? Mrs. Chandos has gone into my lady's rooms: if they can come up at once, she will be spared the sight."

"Come up for what?" asked Mr. Chandos.

"I understood our boxes were to be examined."

She evidently meant her own and mine. Mr. Chandos laughed pleasantly.

"Your boxes? Certainly not, Mrs. Penn. Why, you are the chief sufferer! It would be a new thing to search places for the articles lost out of them."

But Mrs. Penn pressed it. It was not pleasant, although she had lost a bit of lace: and she thought the boxes should all share alike, excepting those belonging to the Chandos family: it would be more satisfactory to our minds. Mr. Chandos repeated his No, courteously, but somewhat imperatively, and left the room with the officer.

"Did you offer your boxes for their inspection?" she asked of me.

"Of course not. They know quite well I should not be likely to take the things."

"I may say the same of myself. But I cannot help remembering that you and I are the only strangers in the place; and it makes me, for my part, feel uncomfortable. Such a thing never before happened in any house where I have been."

"At any rate, Mrs. Penn, you must be exempt from suspicion."

"It is not altogether that. I look at it in this light. These servants are searched: they are proved innocent; at least nothing is found upon them to imply guilt. They may turn round and say—why don't you search these two strangers?—and talk of injustice. However—of course Mr. Chandos must do as he pleases: he seems sole master here."

"Do not fear that he will suspect either you or me, Mrs. Penn. And Lady Chandos, as I gather, knows nothing of the matter."

The search and the commotion had the effect of delaying dinner. It was late when the men departed, and I got tired of being alone in the oak-parlour. Mr. Chandos had gone out somewhere. Putting a shawl over my shoulders, for the evenings were not so warm as they had been, I went out and walked down the avenue.

All in a minute, as I paced it, it occurred to me that Mr. Chandos might be coming home. Would it look as though I had gone to meet him! Love was making me jealously reticent, and I plunged thoughtlessly into the shady walks opposite, trusting to good luck to take me back to the house. Good luck proved a traitor. It lost my way for me: and when I found it again I was at the far end of the pine-walk.

To my dismay. The superstitions attaching to this gloomy walk flashed into my mind. Outside, it had been a grey twilight; here it was nearly as dark as night: in fact, night had set in. There was nothing for it but to run straight through: to turn back would be worse now: and I should inevitably lose myself again. I was about half way up the walk, flying like the wind, when in turning a corner I ran nearly against Mr. Chandos, who was coming quickly down it.

But, in the first moment I did not recognise him; it was too dark. Fear came over me, my heart beat wildly and but for catching hold of him I must have screamed.

"I beg your pardon, sir," I said, loosing him. "I did not know you quite at first."

"You here!" he exclaimed in abrupt astonishment, and (as it sounded to my ear) alarm. "What did you come into this dreary portion of the grounds for, and at this hour? I have already warned you not to do it."

I told him quite humbly how it was: that I had got into it without knowing, after losing my way. Humbly, because he seemed to be in anger at my disobedience.

"I had better take you out of it," he said, drawing my arm within his, without the ceremony of asking leave. "When dusk approaches, you must confine your rambles to the open walk, Miss Hereford."

"Indeed, yes. This has been a lesson to me. But it seemed quite light outside."

He went on without another word, walking as though he were walking for a wager; almost dragging me, so swift was his pace. The dark boughs meeting overhead, the late hour, the still atmosphere, imparted altogether a sensation of strange dreariness.

All at once a curious thing occurred. What, I scarcely know to this day. I saw nothing; I heard nothing; but Mr. Chandos apparently did, for he stopped short, and his face became as one living terror. At this portion of the walk there was no outlet on either side; the trees and the low dwarf shrubs around them were too thickly planted. His eyes and ears alike strained—not that he could see far, for the walk wound in and out—Mr. Chandos stood; then he suddenly drew me close against those said trees, placed himself before me, and bent my face down upon his breast, so that I could see nothing.

"You will be safe thus; I will take care of you," he whispered, the words trembling as they left his hot lips. "Hush! Be still, for the love of Heaven."

So entirely was I taken by surprise, so great was my alarm, that "still" I kept, unresistingly; there as he placed and held me. I heard measured footsteps advance, pass us—they must have touched him—and go on their way. Mr. Chandos's heart was beating more violently than is common to man, and as the steps went by, he clasped me with almost a painful pressure; so that to look up, had I been so inclined, was impossible. When the sound of the footsteps had died away, he raised his head, went on a few yards up the walk, and drew me into one of the narrow intersecting paths, holding still my face near to him. His own was deadly white. Then he released my head, just a little.

"Anne, I could not help it. You must forgive me."

The name, Anne—the first time he had called me by it—sent a whole rush of joy through my veins. What with that, what with the emotion altogether, what with the fright, I burst into tears.

"You are angry with me!"

"Oh, no, not angry. Thank you for sheltering me: I am sure you must have had good cause. I am only frightened."

"Indeed, I had cause," he replied, in a passionate sort of wail. "But you are safe now. I wish—I wish I could shelter you through life."

He must have felt my heart beat at the words; he must; swifter, far, than his had done just now.

"But what was the danger?" I took courage to ask.

"A danger that you may not inquire about. You have escaped it; let that suffice. But you must never encounter the risk again; do you hear, Anne?"

"Only tell me how I am to avoid it."

"By keeping away from these gloomy walks at nightfall. I feel as if I could never be thankful enough for having come up when I did."

He had turned into the pine-walk again, my arm within his now, and was striding up it. At the top he released me quite.

"Shall you be afraid to run across the lawn alone?"

"Oh, no; there's the hall-lamp for company."

"To be sure. One moment yet. I want a promise from you."

He held me before him, looking straight into my eyes, and took my hand between both of his, not in affection, I saw that well enough, but in painful anxiety.

"A promise not to mention what has occurred to any one."

"Trust me, I will not. Trust me, Mr. Chandos."

"Yes, I do trust you. Thank you, my dear little friend."

But all the while his face had remained cold and white. Rarely had such terror fallen upon man: its signs were there. He turned back into the walk again, and I ran swiftly across in the stream of light thrown on the grass by the hall-lamp, and got indoors; one bewildering query haunting me—did ghosts emit sounds as of footsteps when they walked?

My dinner was getting cold on the table. Hickens stared at me as I went in, wondering, doubtless, where I had been. Mr. Chandos's place remained unoccupied; and the things were taken away. I did marvel at his remaining out of doors so long. By-and-by, Hill came in to get something from the sideboard; she ran in and out of the rooms at will, without any sort of ceremony. To speak to her was a sort of relief.

"Hill, don't you think it is very imprudent of Mr. Chandos to be out in the night-air so long, considering that he was ill recently?"

"I should if he was in it," responded Hill, in the short tone she always gave me. "Mr. Chandos is in the west wing with my lady."

It had occurred to my mind many times—and I think I was right—that Hill resented the fact of my unfortunate detention at Chandos.

On the following day a new feature was to be added to the mysterious illness of Lady Chandos—a doctor at length came to see her. He had travelled from a distance, as was understood; but whether by train or other conveyance did not appear. They called him Dr. Laken. He was a short, thin man, getting in years, with dark eyes, and a benevolent, and truthful countenance. His appearance was unexpected—but it seemed more welcome than gold. Mr. Chandos came to him in the oak-parlour, shaking hands warmly.

"Doctor! how glad I am to see you! So you have at last returned!"

"Ay, safe and sound; and considerably refreshed by my two months' change. Where do you think I have been, Mr. Harry? All the way to the other end of Scotland."

"And you were such a stay-at-home!"

"When I was obliged to be. I'm getting old now, and my son has taken to the patients. Well, and who is it that is in urgent need of me? Your blooming self?"

"My blooming self is in no need of medical aid just now," replied Mr. Chandos, something constrained in his voice. "Will you take anything at once, doctor?"

"I'll see my patient first. It is my lady, I suppose?"

Mr. Chandos nodded.

"Ah," said the doctor, following him from the parlour, "I said, you may remember, that the time might come when you'd be glad of me at Chandos. No skill in these remote parts; a set of muffs, all; known to be."

Mr. Chandos echoed his laugh; and leading the way to his study, shut himself in with the doctor. Afterwards he took him up to the west wing.

Why should Mr. Chandos have denied that he was ill?—as by implication he certainly did—was the question that I kept asking myself. Later, when he came to the oak-parlour, I asked it of him.

"One patient is enough in a house," was all his answer. He had come down from the west wing grave, grave even to sadness.

"But—to imply that you were well—when you know what the other doctor said!"

"Hush! Don't allude to that. It was a painful episode, one that I like to be silent upon. The—the danger, as I thought it, passed with the day, you know."

"But are you really better?"

"I am well enough, now," he answered, the gloom on his face breaking. "At least, I should be if—I mean that I am as well as I can expect to be."

"Oh, Mr. Chandos! I think you are only saying this to satisfy me."

"Anne—I must call you 'Anne;' I did so last night, you know, and I cannot go back to the formality of 'Miss Hereford'——"

"Yes, yes, please call me it," I interrupted all too earnestly.

He touched the tip of my shoulder, looking down with a sad sweet smile into my eyes and my blushing face.

"Anne, whether I am ill or well, you must not make it of moment to you. I wish it might be otherwise."

I felt fit to strike myself. Had I so betrayed my own feelings? The soft blush of love turned to the glowing red of shame, and I could but look down, in hope of hiding it.

"My little friend! my dear little friend!" he softly whispered, as if to atone for the former words, "in saying I wish it might be otherwise—and perhaps I owe it to you to say as much—the subject must close. You and I may be the best friends living, Anne; and that is all I can be to you, or to any one."

Quitting the parlour rather hastily, he encountered Dr. Laken in the hall, who had just come down from the west wing. Mr. Chandos said something in a low tone; I presume, by the answer, it was an inquiry as to what he thought of his patient.

"Emaciated, and as obstinate as——"

Mr. Chandos checked the loud voice; and the doctor, turning into the parlour, caught sight of me.

"I never was famous for civility you know, Mr. Harry, but I confess I ought not to abuse Lady Chandos before this young lady: I was going to say 'obstinate as a mule.' Your mother is obstinate."

"I know it," replied Mr. Chandos, lifting his eyes to the doctor's. "That is one of the worst features of the case. They are all bad enough."

"And it can't be remedied. Unless—but there might be danger attending that. Besides—well, well, we must do the best we can; it would not answer to try experiments on Lady Chandos."

Up to the word "besides," Dr. Laken seemed to be forgetting that I was in the room; with the recollection he stopped, making the break. Mr. Chandos rang for refreshments to be served, and I gathered up my work to leave them alone.

"I wish you could remain for the night, Dr. Laken."

"So do I. But it's of no use wishing it, Mr. Harry. I'll see what I can do towards spending a couple of days here next week."

They were the last words I heard. In half an hour the pony carriage was ordered round, and the doctor went away, Mr. Chandos driving.