etreat a secret from everybody but Mrs. Linley's legal adviser, who
was instructed to forward letters. But one other member of the family
remained to be accounted for. This was Mr. Linley's younger brother,
known at present to be traveling on the Continent. Two trustworthy old
servants had been left in charge at Mount Morven--and there was the
whole story; and that was why the house was shut up.

Chapter XXIII. Separation.

In a cottage on the banks of one of the Cumberland Lakes, two ladies
were seated at the breakfast-table. The windows of the room opened on
a garden which extended to the water's edge, and on a boat-house and
wooden pier beyond. On the pier a little girl was fishing, under the
care of her maid. After a prevalence of rainy weather, the sun was
warm this morning for the time of year; and the broad sheet of water
alternately darkened and brightened as the moving masses of cloud now
gathered and now parted over the blue beauty of the sky.

The ladies had finished their breakfast; the elder of the two--that is
to say, Mrs. Presty--took up her knitting and eyed her silent daughter
with an expression of impatient surprise.

"Another bad night, Catherine?"

The personal attractions that distinguished Mrs. Linley were not derived
from the short-lived beauty which depends on youth and health. Pale as
she was, her face preserved its fine outline; her features had not lost
their grace and symmetry of form. Presenting the appearance of a woman
who had suffered acutely, she would have been more than ever (in the
eyes of some men) a woman to be admired and loved.

"I seldom sleep well now," she answered, patiently.

"You don't give yourself a chance," Mrs. Presty remonstrated. "Here's
a fine morning--come out for a sail on the lake. To-morrow there's a
concert in the town--let's take tickets. There's a want of what I call
elastic power in your mind, Catherine--the very quality for which your
father was so remarkable; the very quality which Mr. Presty used to say
made him envy Mr. Norman. Look at your dress! Where's the common-sense,
at your age, of wearing nothing but black? Nobody's dead who belongs to
us, and yet you do your best to look as if you were in mourning."

"I have no heart, mamma, to wear colors."

Mrs. Presty considered this reply to be unworthy of notice. She went on
with her knitting, and only laid it down when the servant brought in the
letters which had arrived by the morning's post.