as certain. He had
never been heard of again, and if alive, the walk before Whitehall
was the last place where he would be. As to mistaking any one else
for him, the Bishop remembered enough of the queer changeling elf to
agree with her that it was not a very probable contingency. And if
it were indeed a spirit, why should it visit her? There had been
one good effect certainly in the revival of home thoughts and
turning her mind from the allurements of favour, but that did not
seem to account for the spirit seeking her out.

Was it, Anne faltered, a sign that she ought to confess all, for the
sake of procuring Christian burial for him. Yet how should she,
when she had promised silence to young Archfield? True, it was for
his wife's sake, and she was dead; but there were the rest of his
family and himself to be considered. What should she do?

The Bishop thought a little while, then said that he did not believe
that she ought to speak without Mr. Archfield's consent, unless she
saw any one else brought into danger by her silence. If it ever
became possible, he thought, that she should ascertain whether the
body were in the vault, and if so, it might be possible to procure
burial for it, perhaps without identification, or at any rate
without making known what could only cause hostility and distress
between the two families, unless the young man himself on his return
should make the confession. This the Bishop evidently considered
the sounder, though the harder course, but he held that Anne had no
right to take the initiative. She could only wait, and bear her
load alone; but the extreme kindness and compassion with which he
talked to her soothed and comforted her so much that she felt
infinitely relieved and strengthened when he dismissed her with his
blessing, and far happier and more at peace than she had been since
that terrible summer morning, though greatly humbled, and taught to
repent of her aspirations after earthly greatness, and to accept her
present condition as a just retribution, and a trial of constancy.

CHAPTER XIX: THE DAUGHTER'S SECRET

"Thy sister's naught: O Regan, she hath tied
Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, _here_:
I can scarce speak to thee."

King Lear.

"Am I--oh! am I going home?" thought Anne. "My uncle will be at
Winchester. I am glad of it. I could not yet bear to see
Portchester again. That Shape would be there. Yet how shall I deal
with what seems la