the room with
restless and bloodshot eyes. Phebe felt a sudden chill again, and rising
to her feet put the children behind her, as if she feared some danger
for them.

"Where is Mr. Sefton?" he asked in a deep, hoarse voice; "is he at home,
Madame?"

Ever since the elder Mr. Sefton had brought his young foreign wife home,
now more than thirty years ago, the people of Riversborough had called
her Madame, giving to her no other title or surname. It had always
seemed to set her apart, and at a distance, as a foreigner, and so quiet
had she been, so homely and domesticated, that she had remained a
stranger, keeping her old habits of life and thought, and often yearning
for the old pastor's home among the Jura Mountains.

"But yes," she answered, "my son is late this morning; but all the world
is early, I think. It is not much beyond nine o'clock, Mr. Acton. The
bank is not open yet."

"No, no," he answered hurriedly, while his eyes wandered restlessly
about the room; "he is not ill, Madame?"

"I hope so not," she replied, with some vague uneasiness stirring in her
heart.

"Nor dead?" he muttered.

"Dead!" exclaimed both Madame and Phebe in one breath; "dead!"

"All men die," he went on, "and it is a pleasant thing to lie down
quietly in one's own grave, where the wicked cease from troubling, and
the weary are at rest. He could rest soundly in the grave."

"I will go and see," cried Madame, catching Phebe by the arm.

"Pray God you may find him dead," he answered, with a low, miserable
laugh, ending in a sob. He was mad; neither Madame nor Phebe had a doubt
of it. They put the children before them, and bade them run away to the
nursery, while they followed up the broad old staircase. Madame went
into her son's bedroom; but in a few seconds she returned to Phebe with
an anxious face.

"He is not there," she said, "nor Felicita. She is in her own
sitting-room, where she likes not to be followed. It is her sacred
place, and I go there never, Phebe."

"But she knows where Mr. Sefton is," answered Phebe, "and we must ask
her. We cannot leave poor Mr. Acton alone. If nobody else dare disturb
her, I will."

"She will not be vexed with you," said Madame Sefton. "Knock at this
door, Phebe; knock till she answers. I am miserable about my son."

Several times Phebe knocked, more loudly each time, until at last a low
voice, sounding far away, bade them go in. Very quietly, as if indeed
they were stepping into some ho