rsley, with a broad grin. His companion smiled, and he left the
room. This put me on my guard. Mr. Hargrave turned seriously to me, and
earnestly began,--

'Dear Mrs. Huntingdon, how I have longed for, yet dreaded, this hour! Do
not be alarmed,' he added, for my face was crimson with anger: 'I am not
about to offend you with any useless entreaties or complaints. I am not
going to presume to trouble you with the mention of my own feelings or
your perfections, but I have something to reveal to you which you ought
to know, and which, yet, it pains me inexpressibly--'

'Then don't trouble yourself to reveal it!'

'But it is of importance--'

'If so I shall hear it soon enough, especially if it is bad news, as you
seem to consider it. At present I am going to take the children to the
nursery.'

'But can't you ring and send them?'

'No; I want the exercise of a run to the top of the house. Come,
Arthur.'

'But you will return?'

'Not yet; don't wait.'

'Then when may I see you again?'

'At lunch,' said I, departing with little Helen in one arm and leading
Arthur by the hand.

He turned away, muttering some sentence of impatient censure or
complaint, in which 'heartless' was the only distinguishable word.

'What nonsense is this, Mr. Hargrave?' said I, pausing in the doorway.
'What do you mean?'

'Oh, nothing; I did not intend you should hear my soliloquy. But the
fact is, Mrs. Huntingdon, I have a disclosure to make, painful for me to
offer as for you to hear; and I want you to give me a few minutes of your
attention in private at any time and place you like to appoint. It is
from no selfish motive that I ask it, and not for any cause that could
alarm your superhuman purity: therefore you need not kill me with that
look of cold and pitiless disdain. I know too well the feelings with
which the bearers of bad tidings are commonly regarded not to--'

'What is this wonderful piece of intelligence?' said I, impatiently
interrupting him. 'If it is anything of real importance, speak it in
three words before I go.'

'In three words I cannot. Send those children away and stay with me.'

'No; keep your bad tidings to yourself. I know it is something I don't
want to hear, and something you would displease me by telling.'

'You have divined too truly, I fear; but still, since I know it, I feel
it my duty to disclose it to you.'

'Oh, spare us both the infliction, and I will exonerate you from the
duty