I saw none of them all the afternoon. After the departure of Mr. Edwin Barley, Sir Harry Chandos went out with Dr. Laken. Mrs. Chandos and Madame de Mellissie were in the east wing, and, I fancied, Lady Chandos with them. Emily had offered to take Mrs. Penn\'s place for a short while, so far as sitting with Mrs. Chandos went; it was one of the best-natured things I had known her do.

Oh, but it seemed to me ominous, the suffering me to sit there all the afternoon alone, no companion but myself and the oak-parlour, and with death in the house! The few words dropped by Emily to her brother about his changed position were beating their sad refrain on my brain. His position was indeed changed: and I was but a poor governess, although I might be the descendant of the Keppe-Carews. I quite thought that the neglect now cast upon me was an earnest of proof that the family at least would not countenance my entrance into it. Well, I would do what was right, and gave him back his fealty: I could but act honourably, though my heart broke over the separation that might ensue.

It was quite dusk when Mr. Chandos came back--the old name will slip out. Dr. Laken went upstairs at once; he turned into the oak-parlour.

"All alone in the dark, Anne?" he said, drawing up the blind a few inches.

It gave a little more light, and I could see his features. He looked preoccupied; but I thought the occasion had come to speak and ought to be seized upon.

What should I say? How frame the words necessary for my task? With my hands and lips trembling, brain and heart alike beating, I was about to speak incoherently, when some one came into the room.

Emily, as I thought at first; but when she came nearer the window I saw that it was Mrs. Chandos. Being left alone for an instant, she had taken the opportunity to come in search of Sir Harry.

"I have not seen you since the Indian mail came in this morning," she said to him. "Why have you not been near me?"

"The day has been a busy one for me," he answered, speaking with the gentleness that one uses to a child. "Many things have had to be seen to."

"It is sad news."

"Very." And the ring of pain in his voice no one could mistake. "Thomas would have come home now."

"Instead of that, we shall never see him again; and you, they tell me, are Sir Harry Chandos. Who would have thought once that you would ever inherit!"

"Strange changes take place," was his reply, spoken altogether in a different tone, as if he did not care to encourage in her any reminiscence of the past.

"It is so singular that they should both die together. At least, die to us. That when we were mourning for the one, news should arrive of the death of the other."

"Very singular. But it enables us to mourn openly, Ethel."

"Shall you live at Chandos?" she resumed, after a pause.

"Certainly."

"But mamma says she shall leave it and take me." She sometimes called Lady Chandos mother. "Would you stay on alone?"

"I shall not be alone for long."

She looked at him questioningly. I could see her lovely blue eyes raised to his in the dim light.

"Perhaps you will be marrying, Sir Harry?"

"Yes. In a short time."

The faint pink on her delicate cheeks deepened to crimson. Could it be that she had ever suffered the old hopes to arise should certain contingencies occur? Surely not! And yet--poor thing!--her intellect was not quite as ours is.

"Have you fixed upon your wife?" she inquired, drawing a deep breath.

"I have asked this young lady to be my wife."

He indicated me, standing as I did back against the window. Mrs. Chandos looked at me, her bright colour varying. The same thought evidently crossed her that I had thought might cross them--my unfitness in point of rank. She spoke to him proudly and coldly.

"Your wife will be Lady Chandos now, you must remember."

"I do not forget it, Ethel."

She sighed imperceptibly, and turned to the door. He went to open it for her.

"Emily and mamma have gone to the west wing. I should not like to go there: I never saw anybody dead. I was almost afraid to come down the stairs, and now I am afraid to go up them."

"Do you wish to go up?" asked Sir Harry.

"Yes. I wish to be in my own rooms."

He held out his arm to her, and she took it. I stayed alone, wishing the explanation had been made before he went away. But ere the lapse of a minute Mrs. Chandos was in the east wing, and he back in the room with me.

"Would you please let me speak to you a moment," I said--for he had only returned to take up a small parcel left on the table: and he came up to me, putting it down again.

But I could not speak. No, I could not. Now that the moment was come, every word went out of my mind, power of utterance from my mouth. He stood looking at me--at my evident agitation and whitening lips.

"It is only right that I should speak; I have been waiting all the afternoon to do so, Mr. Chandos--I beg your pardon; I mean Sir Harry," I brought out at last, and the very fact of speaking gave me courage. "I wish--I wish----"

"Why, Anne what is the matter?" he asked, for a great breath like a sob stopped me, momentarily. "What is it that you wish?"

"To tell you that I quite absolve you from anything you have said to me:" and the shame I felt at having betrayed emotion brought to me a sudden and satisfactory coldness of manner. "Please not to think any more about me. It is not your fault, and I shall not think it is. Let it all be forgotten."

A perception of my meaning flashed upon him, badly though I had expressed it. He looked at me steadily.

"Do you mean, not think further of making you my wife?"

"Yes."

"Very well. But now will you tell me why you say this?"

I hesitated. I think I was becoming agitated again: all because I knew I was getting through my task so stupidly.

"Circumstances have altered with you."

"Well, yes, in a measure. I am a trifle richer; and my wife--as Ethel remarked just now--will be Lady instead of Mrs. Chandos. Why should you object to that?"

"Oh, Mr. Chandos, you know. It is not I who would object; but your family. And--perhaps--yourself."

"Anne, I vow I have a great mind to punish you for that last word. Oh, you silly child!" he continued, putting his arms round my waist and holding me close before him. "But that it would punish me as well as you, I\'d not speak to you for three days: I\'d let you think I took you at your word."

"Please don\'t joke. Don\'t laugh at me."

"Joke! laugh! I suppose you think that under the \'altered circumstances,\' as you call them, I ought to renew my vows. And, by the way, I don\'t know that I ever did make you a formal offer; one that you could use against me in a suit of breach of promise. Miss Hereford, I lay my heart and hand at your disposal. Will you condescend to be my future wife, Lady Chandos?"

Partly from vexation, partly from a great tumult of bliss, I gave no answer. Sir Harry took one for himself. Ay, and was welcome to take it.

With my face in a burning heat,--with my heart in a glow of love, as if filled with the strains of some delightful melody,--with my whole being thrilling with rapture,--I ran upstairs, barely in time to change my dress for dinner, and nearly ran against Lady Chandos, who was coming out of the east wing.

"There are twin genii, who, strong and mighty,

Under their guidance mankind retain;

And the name of the lovely one is Pleasure,

And the name of the loathly one is Pain.

Never divided, where one can enter

Ever the other comes close behind;

And he who in pleasure his thoughts would centre,

Surely pain in the search shall find."

The good old words (and I don\'t at this present moment of writing recollect whose they are) came forcibly to my mind in their impressive truth. The sight of Lady Chandos changed my ............