s admitted no worse accusation than this. Did any grave ill
befall her; if, for instance, the fact of her marriage became known, and
she were left helpless; her letter to New York would not be disregarded.
To reflect thus signified a mental balance rare in women, and remarkable
in one situated as Nancy was. She talked with her companion far less
consistently, for talk served to relieve the oppression of her heart and
mind.

When, next morning, Horace entered the sitting-room, brother and sister
viewed each other with surprise. Neither was prepared for the outward
change wrought in both by the past half-year. Nancy looked what she
in truth had become, a matronly young woman, in uncertain health, and
possessed by a view of life too grave for her years; Horace, no longer
a mere lad, exhibited in sunken cheeks and eyes bright with an unhappy
recklessness, the acquisition of experience which corrupts before it can
mature. Moving to offer her lips, Nancy was checked by the young man's
exclamation.

'What on earth has been the matter with you? I never saw any one so
altered.'

His voice, with its deepened note, and the modification of his very
accent, due to novel circumstances, checked the hearer's affectionate
impulse. If not unfeeling, the utterance had nothing fraternal. Deeply
pained, and no less alarmed by this warning of the curiosity her
appearance would excite in all who knew her, Nancy made a faltering
reply.

'Why should you seem astonished? You know very well I have had an
illness.'

'But what sort of illness? What caused it? You used always to be well
enough.'

'You had better go and talk to my medical attendant,' said Nancy, in a
cold, offended voice.

Horace resumed with irritability.

'Isn't it natural for me to ask such questions? You're not a bit like
yourself. And what did you mean by telling me you were coming back at
once, when I wanted to join you at Falmouth?'

'I meant to. But after all, I had to stay longer.'

'Oh well, it's nothing to me.'

They had not even shaken hands, and now felt no desire to correct the
omission, which was at first involuntary. Horace seemed to have lost all
the amiability of his nature; he looked about him with restless, excited
eyes.

'Are you in a hurry?' asked his sister, head erect.

'No hurry that I know of.--You haven't heard what's been going on?'

'Where?'

'Of course it won't interest you. There's something about you I can't
understand. Is it fath