visit unless you had met me at the gate."

She spoke in a tone rather of sadness than of anger; but Marlow did not
choose to perceive any thing serious in her words, and he replied,
laughing: "Nay, dear Mrs. Hazleton, you do not read the riddle aright.
It shows, when rightly interpreted, that your society is so charming
that I cannot resist its influence when once within the spell, even for
the sake of the Englishman's god--Business."

"A man always succeeds in drawing some flattery for woman's ear out of
the least flattering conduct," answered Mrs. Hazleton.

The conversation then took another turn; and after walking with the rest
of the party up to the house, Marlow again mounted and rode away. As
soon as the horses had obtained some food and repose, Sir Philip also
returned, and Emily was left, with a woman who felt at her heart that
she could have poniarded her not an hour before.

But Mrs. Hazleton was all gentle sweetness, and calm, thoughtful,
dignified ease. She did not suffer her attention to be diverted for one
moment from her fair guest: there were no reveries, no absence of mind;
and Emily--poor Emily--thought her more charming than ever.
Nevertheless, while speaking upon many subjects, and brightly and
intelligently upon all, there was an under-current of thought going on
unceasingly in Mrs. Hazleton's mind, different from that upon the
surface. She was trying to read Marlow's conduct towards Emily--to judge
whether he loved her or not. She asked herself whether his having
escorted her to that house was in reality purely accidental, and she
wished that she could have seen them together but for a few moments
longer, though every moment had been a dagger to her heart. Nay, she did
more: she strove by many a dexterous turn of the conversation, to lure
out her fair unconscious guest's inmost thoughts--to induce her, not to
tell all, for that she knew was hopeless, but to betray all. Emily,
however, happily for herself, was unconscious; she knew not that there
was any thing to betray. Fortunately, most fortunately, she knew not
what was in her own breast; or perhaps I should say, knew not what it
meant. Her answers were all simple, natural and true; and plain candor,
as often happens, disappointed art.

Mrs. Hazleton retired for the night with the conviction that whatever
might be Marlow's feelings towards Emily, Emily was not in love with
Marlow; and that was something gained.

"No, no," she said, with a