were feeling in common, were not these. There
were certain elements of the change in her that
were still secretly drawing us together, and
others that were, as secretly, beginning to drive
us apart.

In my doubt and perplexity, in my vague
suspicion of something hidden which I was left
to find by my own unaided efforts, I examined
Miss Halcombe's looks and manner for enlightenment.
Living in such intimacy as ours, no
serious alteration could take place in any one of
us which did not sympathetically affect the
others. The change in Miss Fairlie was
reflected in her half-sister. Although not a word
escaped Miss Halcombe which hinted at an
altered state of feeling towards myself, her
penetrating eyes had contracted a new habit of
always watching me. Sometimes, the look was
like suppressed anger; sometimes, like
suppressed dread; sometimes, like neither—like
nothing, in short, which I could understand. A
week elapsed, leaving us all three still in this
position of secret constraint towards one another.
My situation, aggravated by the sense of my own
miserable weakness and forgetfulness of myself,
now too late awakened in me, was becoming
intolerable. I felt that I must cast off the
oppression under which I was living, at once and
for ever—yet how to act for the best, or what
to say first, was more than I could tell.

From this position of helplessness and
humiliation, I was rescued by Miss Halcombe.
Her lips told me the bitter, the necessary, the
unexpected truth; her hearty kindness
sustained me under the shock of hearing it; her
sense and courage turned to its right use an
event which threatened the worst that could
happen, to me and to others, in Limmeridge
House.

                                           IX.

It was on a Thursday in the week, and nearly
at the end of the third month of my sojourn in
Cumberland.

In the morning, when I went down into the
breakfast-room, at the usual hour, Miss
Halcombe, for the first time since I had known her,
was absent from her customary place at the
table.

Miss Fairlie was out on the lawn. She bowed
to me, but did not come in. Not a word had
dropped from my lips or from hers that could
unsettle either of us—and yet the same
unacknowledged sense of embarrassment made us
shrink alike from meeting one another alone.
She waited on the lawn; and I waited in the
breakfast-room, till Mrs. Vesey or Miss
Halcombe  came in. How quickly I should have
joined her; how readily we should have shaken
hands, and glided into our customary talk, only
a fortnight ago!

In a few minutes, Miss Halcombe entered.
She had a preoccupied look, and she made her
apologies for being late, rather absently.

"I have been detained," she said, "by a
consultation with Mr. Fairlie on a domestic matter
which he wished to speak to me about."

Miss Fairlie came in from the garden; and
the usual morning greeting passed between us.
Her hand struck colder to mine than ever. She
did not look at me; and she was very pale.
Even Mrs. Vesey noticed it, when she entered
the room a moment after.

"I suppose it's the change in the wind," said
the old lady. "The winter is coming—ah, my
love, the winter is coming soon!"

In her heart and in mine it had come already!

Our morning meal—once so full of pleasant
good-humoured discussions of the plans for the
day—was short and silent. Miss Fairlie seemed
to feel the oppression of the long pauses in the
conversation; and looked appealingly to her
sister to fill them up. Miss Halcombe, after
once or twice hesitating and checking herself,
in a most uncharacteristic manner, spoke at
last.

"I have seen your uncle this morning,
Laura," she said. " He thinks the purple room
is the one that ought to be got ready; and he
confirms what I told you. Monday is the day—
not Tuesday."

While these words were being spoken, Miss
Fairlie looked down at the table beneath her.
Her fingers moved nervously among the crumbs
that were scattered on the cloth. The paleness
on her cheeks spread to her lips, and the lips
themselves trembled visibly. I was not the
only person present who noticed this. Miss
Halcombe saw it, too; and at once set us the
example of rising from table.

Mrs. Vesey and Miss Fairlie left the room
together. The kind sorrowful blue eyes looked
at me, for a moment, with the prescient sadness
of a coming and a long farewell. I felt the
answering pang in my own heart—the pang that
told me I must lose her soon, and love her the
more unchangeably for the loss.

I turned towards the garden, when the door
had closed on her. Miss Halcombe was
standing with her hat in her hand, and her shawl over
her arm, by the large window that led out to
the lawn, and was looking at me attentively.

Have you any leisure time to spare," she
asked, "before you begin to work in your own
room?"

"Certainly, Miss Halcombe. I have always
time at your service."

"I want to say a word to you in private, Mr.
Hartright. Get your hat, and come out into the
garden.  We are not likely to be disturbed there
at this hour in the morning."

As we stepped out on to the lawn, one of the
under-gardeners—a mere lad—passed us on his
way to the house, with a letter in his hand. Miss
Halcombe stopped him.

"Is that letter for me?" she asked.

"Nay, miss; it's just said to be for Miss
Fairlie," answered the lad, holding out the letter
as he spoke.

Miss Halcombe took it from him, and looked
at the address.

"A strange handwriting," she said to herself.
"Who can Laura's correspondent be? Where
did you get this?" she continued, addressing
the gardener.