ould I not talk? One must use one's tongue, if
one isn't a dummy. And then there is that man Sawyer: he could get no
one out of the whole country but a creature who----"

"Hush!" says Sir James, hastily and unwisely. "Better be silent on
that subject." Involuntarily he lays his hand upon the letter just
received.

"Ha!" says Miss Scrope, triumphantly, with astonishing sharpness. "So
I was right, was I? So that pitiful being has been exposed to the
light of day, has he? I always said how it would be; I knew it!--ever
since last spring, when I sent to him for some cucumber-plants, and
he sent me instead (with wilful intent to insult me) two vile gourds.
I always knew how it would end."

"Well, and how has it ended?" says Sir James, with a weak effort to
retrieve his position, putting on a small air of defiance.

"Don't think to deceive me," says Miss Scrope, in a terrible tone;
whereupon Sir James flies the apartment, feeling in his heart that in
a war of words Miss Scrope's match is yet to be found.

Entering the library at Sartoris, he finds Dorian there, alone,
indeed, and comfortless, and sore at heart.

It is a dark dull day. The first breath of winter is in the air. The
clouds are thick and sullen, and are lying low, as if they would
willingly come down to sit upon the earth and there rest
themselves,--so weary they seem, and so full of heaviness.

Above them a wintry sun is trying vainly to recover its ill temper.
Every now and then a small brown bird, flying hurriedly past the
windows, is almost blown against them by the strong and angry blast.

Within, a fire is burning, and the curtains are half drawn across the
windows and the glass door, that leads, by steps, down into the
garden. No lamps are lit, and the light is sombre and severe.

"You have come," says Dorian, advancing eagerly to meet him. "I knew I
could depend upon you, but it is more than good of you to be here so
soon. I have been moping a good deal, I am afraid, and forgot all
about the lamps. Shall I ring for some one now to light them?"

"No: this light is what I prefer," says Scrope, laying his hand upon
his arm. "Stir up the fire, if you like."

"Even that I had not given one thought to," says Branscombe, drearily.
"Sitting here all alone, I gave myself up a prey to evil thoughts."

The word "alone" touches Sir James inexpressibly. Where was his wife
all the time, that she never came to him to comfort and support him in
his hour of