ne morning waiting patiently for the door
of the library--in which Lawrence Newt was sitting with Hope Wayne,
discussing the details of her household--to open. There was a placid air
of resolution in her sad and anxious face, as if she were only awaiting
the moment when she should disburden her heart of the weight it had so
long secretly carried. There was entire silence in the house. The rich
curtains, the soft carpet, the sumptuous furniture--every object on which
the eye fell, seemed made to steal the shock from noise; and the rattle
of the street--the jarring of carts--the distant shriek of the belated
milkman--the long, wavering, melancholy cry of the chimney-sweep--came
hushed and indistinct into the parlor where the sad-eyed woman sat
silently waiting.

At length the door opened and Lawrence Newt came out. He was going toward
the front door, when Mrs. Simcoe rose and went into the hall, and said,
"Stop a moment!"

He turned, half smiled, but saw her face, and his own settled into its
armor.

Mrs. Simcoe beckoned him toward the parlor; and as he went in she stepped
to the library door and said, to avoid interruption,

"Hope, Mr. Newt and I are talking together in the parlor."

Hope bowed, and made no reply. Mrs. Simcoe entered the other room and
closed the door.

"Mr. Newt," she said, in a low voice, "you can not wonder that I am
anxious."

He looked at her, and did not answer.

"I know, perhaps, more than you know," said she; "not, I am sure, more
than you suspect."

Lawrence Newt was a little troubled, but it was only evident in the quiet
closing and unclosing of his hand.

They stood for a few moments without speaking. Then she opened the
miniature, and when she saw that he observed it she said, very slowly,

"Is it quite fair, Mr. Newt?"

"Mrs. Simcoe," he replied, inquiringly.

His firm, low voice reassured her.

"Why do you come here so often?" asked she.

"To help Miss Hope."

"Is it necessary that you should come?"

"She wishes it."

"Why?"

He paused a moment. Mrs. Simcoe continued:

"Lawrence Newt, at least let us be candid with each other. By the memory
of the dead--by the common sorrow we have known, there should be no cloud
between us about Hope Wayne. I use your own words. Tell me what you feel
as frankly as you feel it."

There was simple truth in the earnest face before him. While she was
speaking she raised her hand involuntarily to her breast, and gasped
as if she we