ation had burst upon her,
and, instead of a haughty woman, drawn up to receive and trample upon
the insinuations of another, I beheld, alas! a trembling, panting human
creature, conscious that a sword hung above her head, and without a word
to say why it should not fall and slay her.

It was a pitiable change; a heart-rending revelation! I turned from
it as from a confession. But just then, her cousin, who had apparently
regained her self-possession at the first betrayal of emotion on the
part of the other, stepped forward and, holding out her hand, inquired:

"Is not this Mr. Raymond? How kind of you, sir. And you?" turning to Mr.
Gryce; "you have come to tell us we are wanted below, is it not so?"

It was the voice I had heard through the door, but modulated to a sweet,
winning, almost caressing tone.

Glancing hastily at Mr. Gryce, I looked to see how he was affected by
it. Evidently much, for the bow with which he greeted her words was
lower than ordinary, and the smile with which he met her earnest look
both deprecatory and reassuring. His glance did not embrace her cousin,
though her eyes were fixed upon his face with an inquiry in their depths
more agonizing than the utterance of any cry would have been. Knowing
Mr. Gryce as I did, I felt that nothing could promise worse, or be more
significant, than this transparent disregard of one who seemed to fill
the room with her terror. And, struck with pity, I forgot that Mary
Leavenworth had spoken, forgot her very presence in fact, and, turning
hastily away, took one step toward her cousin, when Mr. Gryce's hand
falling on my arm stopped me.

"Miss Leavenworth speaks," said he.

Recalled to myself, I turned my back upon what had so interested me even
while it repelled, and forcing myself to make some sort of reply to the
fair creature before me, offered my arm and led her toward the door.

Immediately the pale, proud countenance of Mary Leavenworth softened
almost to the point of smiling;--and here let me say, there never was a
woman who could smile and not smile like Mary Leavenworth. Looking in my
face, with a frank and sweet appeal in her eyes, she murmured:

"You are very good. I do feel the need of support; the occasion is so
horrible, and my cousin there,"--here a little gleam of alarm nickered
into her eyes--"is so very strange to-day."

"Humph!" thought I to myself; "where is the grand indignant pythoness,
with the unspeakable wrath and menace in her c