nursemaid. She felt the strongest reluctance,
when the girl appeared, to approach the very inquiries which she was
interested in making.

"Have you found Mr. Linley?" she said--with an effort.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Where did you find him?"

"In the shrubbery."

"Did your master say anything?"

"I slipped away, ma'am, before he saw me."

"Why?"

"Miss Westerfield was in the shrubbery, with my master. I might have
been mistaken--" The girl paused, and looked confused.

Mrs. Linley tried to tell her to go on. The words were in her mind; but
the capacity of giving expression to them failed her. She impatiently
made a sign. The sign was understood.

"I might have been mistaken," the maid repeated--"but I thought Miss
Westerfield was crying."

Having replied in those terms, she seemed to be anxious to get away. The
parasol caught her eye. "Miss Kitty wants this," she said, "and
wonders why you have not gone back to her in the garden. May I take the
parasol?"

"Take it."

The tone of the mistress's voice was completely changed. The servant
looked at her with vague misgivings. "Are you not well, ma'am?"

"Quite well."

The servant withdrew.

Mrs. Linley's chair happened to be near one of the windows, which
commanded a view of the drive leading to the main entrance of the house.
A carriage had just arrived bringing holiday travelers to visit that
part of Mount Morven which was open to strangers. She watched them
as they got out, talking and laughing, and looking about them. Still
shrinking instinctively from the first doubt of Herbert that had ever
entered her mind, she found a refuge from herself in watching the
ordinary events of the day. One by one the tourists disappeared under
the portico of the front door. The empty carriage was driven away next,
to water the horses at the village inn. Solitude was all she could see
from the windows; silence, horrible silence, surrounded her out of doors
and in. The thoughts from which she recoiled forced their way back into
her mind; the narrative of the nursemaid's discovery became a burden
on her memory once more. She considered the circumstances. In spite of
herself, she considered the circumstances again. Her husband and Sydney
Westerfield together in the shrubbery--and Sydney crying. Had Mrs.
Presty's abominable suspicion of them reached their ears? or?--No! that
second possibility might be estimated at its right value by any other
woman; not by Herbert Linley's wif