ntury, nothing that had not some
claim upon educated readers, and yet it was a motley collection. Upon
the front rim of the upper shelf some one, perhaps the dead father in
his invalid days, had carved a motto with a knife, the motto that is
also that of the British arms. It might have been done out of mere
patriotism; it might have had reference to this legacy of books left to
the child-maidens, for whom, it seemed, other companionship had not been
provided.

At length Courthope realised that there was one book which he greatly
desired to take from the shelf. The Morin daughter was dusting in the
room, and, with some blandishments, he succeeded in persuading her to
lay it open upon the table where he could peruse it. To his great
amusement he observed that she was very careful not to come within a
yard or two of him, darting back when he approached, evidently thinking
that the opening of the book might be a ruse to attack her by a sudden
spring. At first the curious consciousness produced by this damsel's
awkward gambols of fear so absorbed him that he could not fix his
attention upon the book; flashes of amusement and of grave annoyance
chased themselves through his mind like sunshine and shadow over
mountains on a showery day; he knew not which was the more rational
mood. Then, attempting the book again, and turning each leaf with a good
deal of contortion and effort, he became absorbed. It was the _Letters
of a Portuguese Nun_, and in the astonishment of its perusal he forgot
the misfortune that had befallen the household, and his own discomfort
and ignominy. The Morin girl had left him in the room, shutting the
door.

An hour passed--it might have been about nine of the clock--when
Courthope began to be roused from his absorption in the book by a sound
in the next room. It was a low uncertain sound, but evidently that of
sobbing and tears. He stopped, listened; his heart was wrung with pity.
It was not the sharp little Eliz who cried like that! He knew such sobs
did not come from the stormy and uncontrolled bosoms of the French
servants. He was convinced that it was Madge who was weeping, that she
was in the long drawing-room, where the portrait of the judge hung near
the door.

He went nearer the door. His excited desire to offer her some sympathy,
to comfort, or if possible to help, became intolerable. So conscious was
he of a common interest between them that not for a moment did the sense
of prying enter hi