o it." And now they had walked out of earshot,
and I heard no more.

If I was not much reassured by these droppings, I was far more moved by
the way in which I came to hear them. Over and over had my dear mother
cautioned me against listening to what was not meant for me; and
here, simply because I found myself the topic, I could not resist the
temptation to learn how men would speak of me. I remembered well the
illustration by which my mother warned me as to the utter uselessness of
the sort of knowledge thus gained. She told me of a theft some visitor
had made at Abbotsford,--the object stolen being a signet-ring Lord
Byron had given to Sir Walter. The man who stole this could never
display the treasure without avowing himself a thief. He had, therefore,
taken what from the very moment of the fraud became valueless. He might
gaze on it in secret with such pleasure as his self-accusings would
permit. He might hug himself with the thought of possession; but how
could that give pleasure, or how drown the everlasting shame the mere
sight of the object must revive? So would it be, my mother said, with
him who unlawfully possessed himself of certain intelligence which he
could not employ without being convicted of the way he gained it The
lesson thus illustrated had not ceased to be remembered by me; and
though I tried all my casuistry to prove that I listened without
intention, almost without being aware of it, I was shocked and grieved
to find how soon I was forgetting the precepts she had labored so hard
to impress upon me.

She had also said, "By the same rule which would compel you to restore
to its owner what you had become possessed of wrongfully, you are bound
to let him you have accidentally overheard know to what extent you are
aware of his thoughts."

"This much, at least, I can do," said I: "I can tell these gentlemen
that I heard a part of their conversation."

I walked about for nigh an hour revolving these things in my head, and
at last returned to the house. As I entered the drawing-room, I was
struck by the silence. My father, Cleremont, and the two foreigners were
playing whist at one end of the room, Hotham and Eccles were seated at
chess at another. Not a word was uttered save some brief demand of
the game, or a murmured "check," by the chess-players. Taking my place
noiselessly beside these latter, I watched the board eagerly, to try and
acquire the moves.

"Do you understand the game?" whispered