scrutinising glance of her eyes whenever she
deigned to cast them upon me, argued an
audacity that ought not to have been
tolerated. She was, from the first, no favourite
of mine. She was, however, intelligent, of a
high spirit, and of a candid, generous, and
affectionate nature. One merit she possessed
in my eyes, or rather in my ears :—her own
lovely language fell from her lips with
singular grace and sweetness. I did not fail to
notice that whenever Anna came into the
room, and Mr. Garston chanced to be present,
a suspension of employment on his part was
the immediate consequence. If he was talking
to me, as few words were used as were
absolutely required to complete the sentence, and
these were poor and tame, and sometimes
incoherent. If he was reading, he would steal
his eyes from the volume, and regard the girl
with a startled look, next transferring them
to his wife, as though he would read in her
countenance what effect was produced by
Anna's whispered words. My mother, I
perceived, detected all this. On these
occasions there was an impatient irritation of
manner whilst she listened, or gave directions
to the girl. She would sometimes angrily
dismiss her, to recall her presently, when the
same scene would be acted over again.

I was old enough to draw conclusions
from what passed, and from what, on each
succeeding occasion I saw with a more sharpened
vigilance. Yet, strange to say, my
mother and Mr. Garston were quite unaware
that I found for myself any such occupation;
regarding me as a lubberly boy without
eyesight or understanding. I conjectured
sometimes that each was so anxious to conceal
from the other what feelings were in operation
that they never once thought of my presence;
or, if they did, that no suspicion ever crossed
them that I was a deeply interested looker-on.

Having accustomed myself to observe every
act, every word, and every look of my mother
and Mr. Garston, and to lay them on the
rack of ingenuity, that I might extract from
them materials towards filling up the
outline of what I had preconceived, I
succeeded at last in elaborating such a picture
as I could not gaze upon without pain and
mortification. I conceived something very
like a loathing of Mr. Garston, and I was
deeply distressed for my mother, whose health
and spirits were rapidly wasting away.
That he was the cause of this, I felt convinced,
—and I hated him for it. The second Mrs.
Garston, indeed! Westwood House was
hardly the place for settling the preliminaries
of such a contract. Anna had an equal share
of my hatred.

One day Mr. Garston had gone to a town a
few miles distant, to attend a sale of the
furniture and effects of a gentleman lately
deceased; who had been long celebrated for
his taste in sculpture and painting, and whose
gallery contained several famous works of
art. He had been very unwilling to go;
although, his attendance there had been an
understood thing for some weeks previously.
My mother urged his departure with an
earnestness that her love of art—nay, more
than that—the love she knew her husband
bore towards it, by no means served to make
intelligible. It was curious, that the more
strongly she urged his departure, the more
reasons he produced for staying at home ;
until these, becoming frivolous, and at last
futile, he acquiesced.

Coming out of my room, intending a walk
after three hours desultory reading, I saw
Anna seated in a recess of one of the
windows in the gallery. She was weeping
bitterly, and my heart a little relented towards
her. I would have asked the cause of her
distress; but, looking up, and perceiving me,
she hastily fled.

I saw nothing of my mother during the
day. She excused herself from coming
down to dinner on the plea of a violent
headache; and this message was delivered to
me by one of the maid-servants, and not by
Anna; who was probably in close attendance
upon her mistress. Towards evening,
however, my mother made her appearance.
She, too, had been weeping, and was now
in such a state of nervous excitement as
I had never before witnessed. I was
surprised at her manner of pacing the room.
Years past, and in her full health, she had
never been accustomed to move so rapidly.
I became alarmed, and begged her to sit
down.

"It is very cold," she said; " the wind is
sharp enough to cut one in pieces."

"My dear mother," I said, " you must be
very ill. It is a mild and beautiful evening.
Let me ring for a shawl for you. Anna shall
bring one."

"Anna ? Anna is gone."

"Gone! Where?"

"No matter. What is the time ? "

I could just discern the hands of the clock
on the mantel-piece.

"It is nearly eight."

"Philip—Mr. Garston, I mean—should
have been home long before this," and she
began to weep.

I endeavoured to soothe and console her;
but, for a long while, in vain.

"There is such a weight upon my heart,
Arthur," she said, " as I never felt before."

"It is your illness, dear mother."

"Perhaps so."

She fell into a fit of musing, during which
—it appeared from words that dropped from
her at intervals—a succession of
circumstances were passing before her mind.
Suddenly a loud shriek burst from her.

"What is that ? "

"What ? "

"I saw a face—a frightful face—glaring
through the window. We must not be left
alone. Call in the servants! Hark!"

"I hear nothing."