ich has come into her voice (her voice naturally
earnest and impressive, though always low), 'Mother, he will be here in
two minutes; I wish to leave the room and cannot,' I, too, have felt
as if something constrained me against my will; as if, in short, I were
under that influence which Mr. Vigors--whom I will never forgive for his
conduct to you--would ascribe to mesmerism. But will you not come in and
see Lilian again?"

"No, not to-night; but watch and heed her, and if you see aught to make
you honestly believe that she regrets the rupture of the old tic from
which I have released her--why, you know, Mrs. Ashleigh, that--that--"
My voice failed; I wrung the good woman's hand, and went my way.

I had always till then considered Mrs. Ashleigh--if not as Mrs. Poyntz
described her--"commonplace weak"--still of an intelligence somewhat
below mediocrity. I now regarded her with respect as well as grateful
tenderness; her plain sense had divined what all my boasted knowledge
had failed to detect in my earlier intimacy with Margrave,--namely,
that in him there was a something present, or a something wanting, which
forbade love and excited fear. Young, beautiful, wealthy, seemingly
blameless in life as he was, she would not have given her daughter's
hand to him!

CHAPTER XLIV.

The next day my house was filled with visitors. I had no notion that I
had so many friends. Mr. Vigors wrote me a generous and handsome letter,
owning his prejudices against me on account of his sympathy with poor
Dr. Lloyd, and begging my pardon for what he now felt to have been
harshness, if not distorted justice. But what most moved me was the
entrance of Strahan, who rushed up to me with the heartiness of old
college days. "Oh, my dear Allen, can you ever forgive me; that I should
have disbelieved your word,--should have suspected you of abstracting my
poor cousin's memoir?"

"Is it found, then?"

"Oh, yes; you must thank Margrave. He, clever fellow, you know, came
to me on a visit yesterday. He put me at once on the right scent. Only
guess; but you never can! It was that wretched old housekeeper who
purloined the manuscript. You remember she came into the room while you
were looking at the memoir. She heard us talk about it; her curiosity
was roused; she longed to know the history of her old master, under his
own hand; she could not sleep; she heard me go up to bed; she thought
you might leave the book on the table when you, too, wen