grandmother would lay her hands by accident
upon the important papers reinstating
George in his possessions. But if Lewis
lived George was doomed to a life of bitter
disappointment, and a lurking suspicion of
his mother's honour.

I thought over it all, day and night,
until it took a complete hold upon me.
The conclusion forced itself upon me that
Mr. James Haddan had never known of
the existence of this packet, which had
been put into his mother's hands when it
reached Haddan Lodge. Had she opened it
in the presence of any other person, or had
she deliberately taken counsel with some
one? If the latter, it would probably be
some woman; for with a lady of her age
and position a woman was likely to stand
in a closer intimacy than any man not
of her own family. If so, her confidante
would probably have possession of the
papers, as being a person of less mark than
Mrs. Haddan, of Haddan Lodge. But she
had no confidential servant, for her maid
was a youngish woman, who had only been
with her a few months; and there seemed
to be no ancient retainers belonging to the
house.

I had been there several days, and was
still a welcome guest at Haddan Lodge,
when Lewis said one morning at breakfast,
"Granny, I was dreaming of Becket in
the night."

"Becket!" I repeated, "what a singular
name. Who can it belong to?"

"She was my nurse," he answered;
"my second mother, in fact, for my own
mother died at my birth. Her husband
was our head-gardener; and she had been
my grandmother's maid up to the time of
my father's marriage."

"The best maid that ever lived," put in
Mrs. Haddan, warmly, "and the very best
nurse to Lewis. She had just lost her own
child, the only one she ever had, and she
loved Lewis as if he had been her own."

To think that our Mrs. Haddan had
never told us that her Aunt Becket was
married! I said no more about her till
the dowager had left the room, and we
were alone.

"What became of your nurse?" I asked.

"Oh," said Lewis, rather sorrowfully,
"it is a very curious case of monomania.
I remember it coming on, though I was
only four or five years old. She grew
gradually morose and suspicious, took to
locking up her boxes, and after that the
door of her room, and would not let the
other servants so much as look into it.
Once she boxed a girl's ears soundly for
standing in the passage near the door ; the
girl left at once. Then she took to carrying
a small strong satchel about with her
wherever she went, and flew into a violent
rage if anybody spoke about it, which the
servants would do constantly just to teaze
her. Nobody knew what was in it. Her
savings perhaps. My grandmother talked
to her, and reasoned with her again and
again ; but it was of no use at all. The
mania grew upon her, and she became
more and more restless. Perfectly rational,
you know, upon every other point, but
as mad as a March hare upon that. She
would stay out of doors all day long, marching
up and down the grounds, ready to
talk quite sensibly, but even I dared not
touch her bag. She knocked me down
once for trying to get it from her."

"What was done with her then?" I asked,
scarcely able to conceal my excitement.

"Of course she was obliged to be sent
away," said Lewis, "but not to an asylum.
There was positively no risk either to herself
or any one else, if she was only left alone.
My father placed her with some tenants
of ours, with strict orders for no one to
interfere with her about her bag. He
told the people what her mania was,
and assured them there was nothing of any
value in it. There could be nothing, her
husband said so. Poor Becket! It was a
great trouble to him as long as he lived.
But she goes on very comfortably, and it
is about ten years since she left us."

"But suppose she should be ill, or die?"
I suggested.

"Then Townshend has strict orders to
bring it at once to my grandmother," he
answered; "if she has any secret, poor
soul, it would be safe with us. We have
perfect confidence in Townshend and his
wife. Besides, the bag would be of no
worth to them."

I could no longer control my agitation,
and I left Lewis abruptly. Here was the
solution of my perplexed questionings.
Becket had either surprised Mrs. Haddan's
secret, or the latter had taken her into her
confidence as the foster-mother of Lewis.
Her hatred of her pretty niece would only
add intensity to her rage at finding her
about to usurp the place of mistress of
Haddan Lodge. I comprehended, with
distinct clearness, her gradually increasing
care and terror in possession of these im-
portant papers, until, with respect to them,
her reason had given way, and monomania