ave had a good deal to do of late,' said I, without looking up from
my letter.

'Have you, indeed! Somebody said you had been strangely neglecting your
business these last few months.'

'Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months especially, I have been
particularly plodding and diligent.'

'Ah! well, there's nothing like active employment, I suppose, to console
the afflicted;--and, excuse me, Mr. Markham, but you look so very far
from well, and have been, by all accounts, so moody and thoughtful of
late,--I could almost think you have some secret care preying on your
spirits. Formerly,' said she timidly, 'I could have ventured to ask you
what it was, and what I could do to comfort you: I dare not do it now.'

'You're very kind, Miss Eliza. When I think you can do anything to
comfort me, I'll make bold to tell you.'

'Pray do!--I suppose I mayn't guess what it is that troubles you?'

'There's no necessity, for I'll tell you plainly. The thing that
troubles me the most at present is a young lady sitting at my elbow, and
preventing me from finishing my letter, and, thereafter, repairing to my
daily business.'

Before she could reply to this ungallant speech, Rose entered the room;
and Miss Eliza rising to greet her, they both seated themselves near the
fire, where that idle lad Fergus was standing, leaning his shoulder
against the corner of the chimney-piece, with his legs crossed and his
hands in his breeches-pockets.

'Now, Rose, I'll tell you a piece of news--I hope you have not heard it
before: for good, bad, or indifferent, one always likes to be the first
to tell. It's about that sad Mrs. Graham--'

'Hush-sh-sh!' whispered Fergus, in a tone of solemn import. '"We never
mention her; her name is never heard."' And glancing up, I caught him
with his eye askance on me, and his finger pointed to his forehead; then,
winking at the young lady with a doleful shake of the head, be
whispered--'A monomania--but don't mention it--all right but that.'

'I should be sorry to injure any one's feelings,' returned she, speaking
below her breath. 'Another time, perhaps.'

'Speak out, Miss Eliza!' said I, not deigning to notice the other's
buffooneries: 'you needn't fear to say anything in my presence.'

'Well,' answered she, 'perhaps you know already that Mrs. Graham's
husband is not really dead, and that she had run away from him?' I
started, and felt my face glow; but I bent it over my letter, and went on