covered with a cloth. Mrs. Gaunt felt them under it.

"But perhaps he will be angry if we move his papers," said she.

"Not he," said Betty. "He has no secrets from God or man."

"Well, _I_ won't take it on me," said Mrs. Gaunt, merrily. "I leave that
to you." And she turned her back and settled the mirror, officiously,
leaving all the other responsibilities to Betty.

The sturdy widow laughed at her scruples, and whipped off the cloth
without ceremony. But soon her laugh stopped mighty short, and she
uttered an exclamation.

"What is the matter?" said Mrs. Gaunt, turning her head sharply round.

"A wench's glove, as I'm a living sinner," groaned Betty.

A poor little glove lay on the table; and both women eyed it like
basilisks a moment. Then Betty pounced on it and examined it with the
fierce keenness of her sex in such conjunctures, searching for a name
or a clew.

Owing to this rapidity, Mrs. Gaunt, who stood at some distance, had not
time to observe the button on the glove, or she would have recognized
her own property.

"He have had a hussy with him unbeknown," said Betty, "and she have left
her glove. 'T is easy to get in by the window and out again. Only let me
catch her! I'll tear her eyes out, and give him my mind. I'll have no
young hussies creeping in an' out where I be."

Thus spoke the simple woman, venting her coarse domestic jealousy.

The gentlewoman said nothing, but a strange feeling traversed her heart
for the first time in her life.

It was a little chill, it was a little ache, it was a little sense of
sickness; none of these violent, yet all distinct. And all about what?
After this curious, novel spasm at the heart, she began to be ashamed of
herself for having had such a feeling.

Betty held her out the glove: and she recognized it directly, and turned
as red as fire.

"You know whose 't is?" said Betty, keenly.

Mrs. Gaunt was on her guard in a moment. "Why, Betty," said she, "for
shame! 't is some penitent hath left her glove after confession. Would
you belie a good man for that? O, fie!"

"Humph!" said Betty, doubtfully. "Then why keep it under cover? Now you
can read, dame; let us see if there isn't a letter or so writ by the
hand as owns this very glove."

Mrs. Gaunt declined, with cold dignity, to pry into Brother Leonard's
manuscripts.

Her eye, however, darted sidelong at them, and told another tale; and,
if she had been there alone, perhaps, the daughter of Eve woul