etty had seemed to read the husband's approach
in the aspect of her mother's face.

'He is coming!' exclaimed the maiden.

'Not for a week,' her mother assured her.

'He is then--for certain?'

'Well, yes.'

Betty hastily retired to her room, and would not be seen.

To lock her up, and hand over the key to Reynard when he should appear in
the hall, was a plan charming in its simplicity, till her mother found,
on trying the door of the girl's chamber softly, that Betty had already
locked and bolted it on the inside, and had given directions to have her
meals served where she was, by leaving them on a dumb-waiter outside the
door.

Thereupon Mrs. Dornell noiselessly sat down in her boudoir, which, as
well as her bed-chamber, was a passage-room to the girl's apartment, and
she resolved not to vacate her post night or day till her daughter's
husband should appear, to which end she too arranged to breakfast, dine,
and sup on the spot. It was impossible now that Betty should escape
without her knowledge, even if she had wished, there being no other door
to the chamber, except one admitting to a small inner dressing-room
inaccessible by any second way.

But it was plain that the young girl had no thought of escape. Her ideas
ran rather in the direction of intrenchment: she was prepared to stand a
siege, but scorned flight. This, at any rate, rendered her secure. As
to how Reynard would contrive a meeting with her coy daughter while in
such a defensive humour, that, thought her mother, must be left to his
own ingenuity to discover.

Betty had looked so wild and pale at the announcement of her husband's
approaching visit, that Mrs. Dornell, somewhat uneasy, could not leave
her to herself. She peeped through the keyhole an hour later. Betty lay
on the sofa, staring listlessly at the ceiling.

'You are looking ill, child,' cried her mother. 'You've not taken the
air lately. Come with me for a drive.'

Betty made no objection. Soon they drove through the park towards the
village, the daughter still in the strained, strung-up silence that had
fallen upon her. They left the park to return by another route, and on
the open road passed a cottage.

Betty's eye fell upon the cottage-window. Within it she saw a young girl
about her own age, whom she knew by sight, sitting in a chair and propped
by a pillow. The girl's face was covered with scales, which glistened in
the sun. She was a convalescent from smallpox