"For my heart was hot and restless:

And my life was full of care;

And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I cousld bear."

Seated back in the shade, where the sunlight of the afternoon did not fall upon him, I saw him lift his hands at the last line, with a gesture half of despair, half of prayer, and then lay them on his pale face. Whatever his burden might be, it was a heavy one. It was he who had asked me to sing--Mr. Chandos; for the first time since I was in the house. Not much of a singer at the best, I never ventured on any but the most simple songs: and, of modern ones, "The Bridge," set to music by Miss Lindsay, is the sweetest.

"But now it has fallen from me;

It is buried in the sea;

And only the sorrow of others

Throws its shadow over me."

Rather boisterously the door was opened, and Mrs. Penn came in. Her hair was decidedly of a more glowing red than usual; but her light green gown of damask silk, her point-lace lappets thrown behind, her gold ornaments, ay, and herself, were altogether handsome. Mr. Chandos rose.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, "for entering so unceremoniously. Hearing the piano, I thought Miss Hereford was alone."

"I turned round on the music-stool and sat facing the room. Mr. Chandos handed her a chair.

"Thank you," she said, hesitating to take it. "Mrs. Chandos is in the west wing: but perhaps I shall be intruding if I remain?"

"Not at all," replied Mr. Chandos. "Miss Hereford may be glad of your company. I am going to the west wing myself."

"Have you found your manuscript, Mr. Chandos?"

"What manuscript?"

She paused a moment. "I heard yesterday you had lost one. When Emma came in about her housemaid\'s duties last evening, she mentioned it."

It may as well be said, en passant, that Emma was housemaid to the east wing; Harriet to the chambers on the first floor generally, mine included; Lizzy Dene to the west wing: but it would frequently be the pleasure of Lady Chandos that Lizzy did not enter her apartments for days together, only Hill.

"It was a memorandum-book; not a manuscript," said Mr. Chandos.

"Oh; I understood her to say a manuscript."

"I have not found it," he continued. "Fortunately the contents are of little consequence. They consist chiefly of notes relative to the everyday business of the estate, and a few private items concerning myself. Some things are entered in hieroglyphics of my own," he continued, with a half laugh, "and I\'ll defy the thief to make them out, however clever he may be. The singular thing is, how it could have disappeared from my locked desk."

"You must have left your keys out," she quickly said.

"That is more than likely. Haying honest people about me at Chandos, I have not been over-particular."

"It is a bad practice to leave keys where they may be picked up and used; it gives opportunities that otherwise might never have been seized upon," observed Mrs. Penn, in a dreamy tone.

"Not a bit of it, madam. Unless dishonest people are at hand to take advantage of the opportunities."

"Then how do you think your book can have gone, Mr. Chandos?"

"Well, I cannot think. I am content to leave the elucidation to time."

Mrs. Penn looked at him: she seemed to be hesitating over something. It was so palpable that Mr. Chandos noticed it.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I think I will speak," she said, with sudden decision. "Though indeed I do not like to do so, Mr. Chandos: and I certainly should not, but for hearing of this loss of yours. I have had a small loss too."

Mr. Chandos sat down; he had been standing since she came in; and waited for her to continue.

"It is not of much value; but--as you say by your book--it is the fact of its having gone that troubles me. Only a bit of what we call Honiton lace, about three yards of it, two inches in width. That it was safe in my workbox yesterday morning I know. This morning it was no longer there."

"Was the workbox locked?"

"It was. I had left it in the library, locked. My keys were in a drawer of my bedroom, where I keep them, for they are heavy, and weigh down my dress-pockets. Curious to say, upon looking for my keys this morning, I found them not in the usual drawer, but in the fellow-drawer beside it. Whoever had taken them out forgot which was the right drawer and put them back in the wrong one."

"And you missed the lace?"

"Yes. It happened that I was going to use it to trim some sleeves: but for that I might not have missed it for weeks. It was in the bottom of the workbox, lying a-top of some other things: as soon as I lifted the upper tray I saw it was gone. Of course I searched the box over, but without result."

"Have you spoken to the servants?"

"I have not said much, lest they should think I accused them. What I said was that I had lost or mislaid some lace; and described it. They all appear to be quite innocent. Still, the lace could not go without hands.

"I don\'t like this," observed Mr. Chandos, after a pause.

"It is not the loss in itself--as I say: it is the feeling of insecurity it leaves," returned Mrs. Penn. "One cannot be sure that other things will not follow. But I must not detain you longer," she added, rising. "I hope, Mr. Chandos, you will not think I have been wrong or unkind to mention this."

"I think you have done quite right, Mrs. Penn," he warmly replied, as he opened the door for her. "If we really have a thief in the house, the sooner we are upon our guard the better. Take greater care of your keys for the present. As to the lace, Mrs. Chandos will make it good to you----"

"Sir! Mr. Chandos!" she interrupted, rather fiercely. "Oh, pray don\'t talk in that way; I shall be vexed to have mentioned it. The loss is nothing."

She left the room. Not a word had I spoken all the while; not a syllable as to my own boxes having been visited. I did not care to throw any accusation upon Lizzy Dene. Besides, the matter seemed to present contradiction to my mind: as I found by the next words it was doing to that of Mr. Chandos.

"I cannot fathom this at all: unless we have two light-fingered people in the house. Mrs. Penn\'s lace must have been cribbed by one of the maids, I fear; but it is hardly likely she\'d take a memorandum-book. Where would be the use of it to any one of them? There were things of value in my desk, not touched: a gold paper-knife; a large gold seal; and some loose silver. Well, we must wait; and meanwhile take care of our keys," he concluded, as he left the parlour.

"I finished my interrupted song in a low voice, sang another or two, and then went up to my room. Mrs. Penn was standing at the library-door.

"Has Mr. Chandos gone into the west wing, do you know, Miss Hereford?"

"I think so. He quitted the parlour almost as soon as you did."

"I am sorry to have missed him. I don\'t know what he\'ll think of me. Did you notice my omission?"

"What omission?"

"Never to have asked after his health. I feel ashamed of myself. I have not seen him since the day\'s illness he had, when the physician came down to him. I hate to be unfeeling," added Mrs. Penn, in wrath. "But what with seeing him in the oak-parlour when I expected only you were there, and what with the thought of my lace, I completely forgot it."

"He says he is better. I think he must be very much better from the alarming state they said he was in that day. But he looks ill."

"That\'s caused by worry; his ill looks," said Mrs. Penn. "I should wonder if he could look well. Look at his figure: it\'s no better than a skeleton\'s."

We had been walking together to the end of the library. I don\'t know whether I have mentioned it before, but every evening a good hour before dusk, the door of this library was locked for the night by Hill, and the key carried away in her pocket. Mrs. Penn turned to me as we stood together at the window, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"Was there not something mysterious about his illness?"

Frankly speaking, I thought there was. But in mind I had connected it in some undefined way with his sleepwalking. I could not say this.

"But that he is so remarkably unlikely a subject for it, a living atomy, as may be said, I should think it had been a fit," she continued. "Did you hear whether the London doctor also saw Lady Chandos?"

"No, I did not. There\'s nobody to inquire of, except Hill. And you know how much information we should be likely to get from her."

"Except him," corrected Mrs. Penn, with emphasis. "With all his sins, Harry Chandos is a gentleman and would give you an answer."

"I shook my head. It was not my place, a young visitor there on sufferance, to inquire of things they seemed to wish not inquired of: and I said as much to Mrs. Penn.

"You are too fastidious, Miss Hereford; you are no better than a schoolgirl. Look here," she added, turning briskly, "this is the workbox. I will show you where the lace was."

It was a large, handsome box; a beautiful box; tortoiseshell inlaid with silver, its fittings of silver and sky-blue velvet; its scissors (save the steel part), its thimble, bodkin, and stiletto of gold.

"I wonder they did not take these as well as the lace."

"They might be afraid to do that," said Mrs. Penn. "See!" she cried, lifting the tray, "that\'s where it lay. It was a very handsome piece of lace, and I am sorry to lose it."

The sweeping of a silk dress along the corridor gave token of the approach of Mrs. Chandos. She passed into the east wing and Mrs. Penn hastened after her. Standing at the door of the west wing, as if he had attended Mrs. Chandos from it, was Mr. Chandos. He saw us both come out of the library.

"Where he had his dinner that day I don\'t know. Mine was over and the things were taken away before I saw him again. I had been upstairs for a book and met him in the hall. He followed me to the oak-parlour and threw himself into a chair, like one utterly weary.

"You have not been walking much, have you, Mr. Chandos?"

"Not much; my foot\'s too weak yet. I have been taking a turn or two in the pine-walk. And you? Have you been spirit-gazing again?"

I did not answer, except by a shake of the head, and he sat for a long while in silence, breaking it at last abruptly.

"Does Mrs. Penn get looking from the front windows, after that--that sight--that you professed to see the night before last?"

"I think she would like to do so: but there\'s no opportunity. The rooms in the east wing do not look to the front, you know."

"Ah, I see you and she get talking of this together."

"The talking has been very little, and of her seeking, not mine. I would rather she never spoke to me at all of it: it embarrasses me."

"Why does it embarrass you?"

"I--I----"

"Well?" he said, looking straight at me.

"I don\'t like to say, Mr. Chandos."

He left his chair and came to the window, where I stood playing with the jessamine. How soft the air was! how sweet the perfume of the flowers in the approaching night!

"Now then. I am come to hear what you mean."

The tones were persuasive: the face, as it drooped a little, wore a smile of inviting confidence. I bent my head and told him--that I thought what people had seen at midnight and taken for a ghost might be himself walking in his sleep; but that I could not say this to Mrs. Penn. He made no rejoinder whatever. He lifted his head and gazed straight out towards the entrance of the pine-walk.

"Shall I tell Mrs. Penn that it is not a ghost at all, sir, and set her mind, so far, at rest? I need not give any particulars."

"But suppose it is a ghost, Miss Hereford?"

The tones were very sad and serious. My heart beat a little quicker.

"Did you not assure me you saw it the other night--when I was safe in this very parlour?"

"Yes; but I thought afterwards it might be what you said--one of the gardeners. Night-light is so deceptive.............