ly. It might be that she shared her mother's prejudices, and did
not approve of her taking up her abode with the Hennikers. Be it how
it might, there were palpable signs of strained relations.

Could it be possible, I wondered, that Mary had learnt of her sister's
secret engagement to her husband?

I looked full at her as that thought flashed through my mind. Yes, she
presented a picture of sweet and interesting widowhood. In her voice,
as in her countenance, was just that slight touch of grief which told
me plainly that she was a heart-broken, remorseful woman--a woman,
like many another, who knew not the value of a tender, honest and
indulgent husband until he had been snatched from her. Mother and
daughter, both widows, were a truly sad and sympathetic pair.

As we spoke I watched her eyes, noted her every movement attentively,
but failed utterly to discern any suggestion of what her mother had
remarked.

Once, at mention of her dead husband, she had of a sudden exclaimed in
a low voice, full of genuine emotion:

"Ah, yes. He was so kind, so good always. I cannot believe that he
will never come back," and she burst into tears, which her mother,
with a word of apology to me, quietly soothed away.

When we arose I accompanied them to the drawing-room; but without any
music, and with Mary's sad, half-tragic countenance before us, the
evening was by no means a merry one; therefore I was glad when, in
pursuance of the country habit of retiring early, the maid brought my
candle and showed me to my room.

It was not yet ten o'clock, and feeling in no mood for sleep, I took
from my bag the novel I had been reading on my journey and, throwing
myself into an armchair, first gave myself up to deep reflection over
a pipe, and afterwards commenced to read.

The chiming of the church clock down in the village aroused me,
causing me to glance at my watch. It was midnight. I rose, and going
to the window, pulled aside the blind, and looked out upon the rural
view lying calm and mysterious beneath the brilliant moonlight.

How different was that peaceful aspect to the one to which I was,
alas! accustomed--that long blank wall in the Marylebone Road. There
the cab bells tinkled all night, market wagons rumbled through till
dawn, and the moonbeams revealed drunken revellers after "closing
time."

A strong desire seized me to go forth and enjoy the splendid night.
Such a treat of peace and solitude was seldom afforded me, st