gently in the light evening air, that the sound
of their rustling never reached us. The sky was
without a cloud; and the dawning mystery of
moonlight began to tremble already in the region
of the eastern heaven. The sense of peace and
seclusion soothed all thought and feeling into a
rapt, unearthly repose; and the balmy quiet
that deepened ever with the deepening light,
seemed to hover over us with a gentler
influence still, when there stole upon it from the
piano the heavenly tenderness of the music of
Mozart. It was an evening of sights and sounds
never to forget.

We all sat silent in the places we had chosen
—Mrs. Vesey still sleeping, Miss Fairlie still
playing, Miss Halcombe still reading—till the
light failed us. By this time the moon had
stolen round to the terrace, and soft, mysterious
rays of light were slanting already across the
lower end of the room. The change from the
twilight obscurity was so beautiful, that we
banished the lamps, by common consent, when
the servant brought them in; and kept the large
room unlighted, except by the glimmer of the
two candles at the piano.

For half an hour more, the music still went
on. After that, the beauty of the moonlight
view on the terrace tempted Miss Fairlie out
to look at it; and I followed her. When the
candles at the piano had been lighted, Miss
Halcombe had changed her place, so as to continue
her examination of the letters by their assistance.
We left her, on a low chair, at one side
of the instrument, so absorbed over her reading
that she did not seem to notice when we
moved.

We had been out on the terrace together, just
in front of the glass doors, hardly so long as
five minutes, I should think; and Miss Fairlie
was, by my advice, just tying her white
handkerchief over her head as a precaution against
the night air—when I heard Miss Halcombe's
voice—low, eager, and altered from its natural
lively tone—pronounce my name.

"Mr. Hartright," she said, "will you come
here for a minute? I want to speak to you."

I entered the room again immediately. The
piano stood about half way down along the
inner wall. On the side of the instrument
farthest from the terrace, Miss Halcombe was
sitting with the letters scattered on her lap,
and with one in her hand selected from them,
and held close to the candle. On the side nearest
to the terrace there stood a low ottoman, on
which I took my place. In this position, I was
not far from the glass doors; and I could see
Miss Fairlie plainly, as she passed and repassed
the opening on to the terrace; walking slowly
from end to end of it in the full radiance of the
moon.

"I want you to listen while I read the
concluding passages in this letter," said Miss
Halcombe. "Tell me if you think they throw any
light upon your strange adventure on the road
to London. The letter is addressed by my
mother to her second husband, Mr. Fairlie; and
the date refers to a period of between eleven and
twelve years since. At that time, Mr. and Mrs.
Fairlie, and my half-sister Laura, had been
living for years in this house; and I was away
from them, completing my education at a school
in Paris."

She looked and spoke earnestly, and, as I
thought, a little uneasily, as well. At the
moment when she raised the letter to the candle
before beginning to read it, Miss Fairlie passed
us on the terrace, looked in for a moment, and,
seeing that we were engaged, slowly walked on.

Miss Halcombe began to read, as follows:

"'You will be tired, my dear Philip, of hearing
perpetually about my schools and my
scholars. Lay the blame, pray, on the dull
uniformity of life at Limmeridge, and not on me.
Besides, this time, I have something really
interesting to tell you about a new scholar.

"'You know old Mrs. Kempe, at the village
shop. Well, after years of ailing, the doctor
has at last given her up, and she is dying slowly,
day by day. Her only living relation, a sister,
arrived last week to take care of her. This
sister comes all the way from Hampshire—her
name is Mrs. Catherick. Four days ago Mrs.
Catherick came here to see me, and brought her
only child with her, a sweet little girl about a
year older than our darling Laura—'"

As the last sentence fell from the reader's
lips, Miss Fairlie passed us on the terrace once
more. She was softly singing to herself one of
the melodies which she had been playing earlier
in the evening. Miss Halcombe waited till she
had passed out of sight again; and then went on
with the letter:

"'Mrs. Catherick is a decent, well-behaved,
respectable woman; middle aged, and with the
remains of having been moderately, only
moderately, nice-looking. There is something in her
manner and her appearance, however, which I
can't make out. She is reserved about herself
to the point of downright secrecy; and there is
a look in her face—I can't describe it—which
suggests to me that she has something on her
mind. She is altogether what you would call
a walking mystery. Her errand at Limmeridge
House, however, was simple enough. When
she left Hampshire to nurse her sister, Mrs.
Kempe, through her last illness, she had been
obliged to bring her daughter with her, through
having no one at home to take care of the little
girl. Mrs. Kempe may die in a week's time,
or may linger on for months; and Mrs. Catherick's
object was to ask me to let her daughter,
Anne, have the benefit of attending my school;
subject to the condition of her being removed
from it to go home again with her mother, after
Mrs. Kempe's death. I consented at once; and
when Laura and I went out for our walk, we
took the little girl (who is just eleven years old)
to the school, that very day.'"

Once more, Miss Fairlie's figure, bright and
soft in its snowy muslin dress—her face prettily