en the silence had been of the
grave: not one of the party had survived to bring the news of his last
moments: there had been illness and disaster from the first.

When Mrs. Cheyne recovered from the nervous disorder that had
attacked her on the receipt of this news, she put on widow's mourning,
and wore it for two years; then she sent for Miss Mewlstone, and set
herself to go through with the burden of her life. If she found it
heavy, she never complained: she was silent on her own as on other
people's troubles. Only at the sight of a child of two or three years
of age she would turn pale, and draw down her veil, and if it ran up
to her, as would sometimes happen, she would put it away from her
angrily, pushing it away almost with violence, and no child was ever
suffered to cross her threshold.

The drawing-room at the White House was a spacious apartment, with
four long windows opening on the lawn. Mrs. Cheyne was sitting in her
low chair, reading, with Miss Mewlstone at the farther end of the
room, with her knitting-basket beside her; two or three grayhounds
were grouped near her. They all rushed forward with furious barks as
Mr. Drummond was announced, and then leaped joyously round him. Mrs.
Cheyne put down her book, and greeted him with a frosty smile.

She had laid aside her widow's weeds, but still dressed in black, the
sombreness of her apparel harmonizing perfectly with her pale, creamy
complexion. Her dress was always rich in material, and most carefully
adjusted. In her younger days it had been an art with her,--almost a
passion,--and it had grown into a matter of custom.

"You are very good to come again so soon, Mr. Drummond," she said, as
she gave him her hand. The words were civil, but a slight inflection
on the word "soon" made Mr. Drummond feel a little uncomfortable. Did
she think he called too often? He wished he had brought Mattie; only
last time she had been so satirical, and had quizzed the poor little
thing unmercifully; not that Mattie had found out that she was being
quizzed.

"I hardly thought I should find you at home, it is so fine an
afternoon; but I made the attempt, you see," he continued, a little
awkwardly.

"Your parochial conscience was uneasy, I suppose, because I was
missing at church?" she returned, somewhat slyly. "You would make a
capital overseer, Mr. Drummond,"--with a short laugh. "A headache is a
good excuse, is it not? I had a headache, had I not, Miss Mewlstone?"