before a piping gale. They might be similar--a puffed
iteration, and might be meaningless and wearisome; the gale was a power
in earnest.

Her brother sat locked-up. She did as a wife would not have done, and
held her peace. He spoke; she replied in a few words--blunt, to the
point, as no wife would have done.

Her dear, warm-hearted Rowsley was shaken by the blow he had been
obliged to deal to the woman--poor woman!--if she felt it. He was always
the principal sufferer where the feelings were concerned. He was never
for hurting any but the enemy.

His 'Ha, here we dine!' an exclamation of a man of imprisoned yawns at
the apparition of the turnkey, was delightful to her, for a proof of
health and sanity and enjoyment of the journey.

'Yes, and I've one bottle left, in the hamper, of the hock you like,'
she said. 'That Mr. Weyburn likes it too. He drank a couple coming
down.'

She did not press for talk; his ready appetite was the flower of
conversation to her. And he slept well, he said. Her personal experience
on that head was reserved.

London enfolded them in the late evening of a day brewing storm. My lord
heard at the door of his house that Lady Ormont had not arrived. Yet
she had started a day in advance of him. He looked down, up and round at
Charlotte. He looked into an empty hall. Pagnell was not there. A sight
of Pagnell would, strange to say, have been agreeable.

Storm was in the air, and Aminta was on the road. Lightning has, before
now, frightened carriage-horses. She would not misconduct herself; she
would sit firm. No woman in England had stouter nerve--few men.

But the carriage might be smashed. He was ignorant of the road she
had chosen for her return. Out of Wiltshire there would be no cliffs,
quarries, river-banks, presenting dangers. Those dangers, however,
spring up when horses have the frenzy.

Charlotte was nodded at, for a signal to depart; and she drove off,
speculating on the bullet of a grey eye, which was her brother's adieu
to her.

The earl had apparently a curiosity to inspect vacant rooms. His
Aminta's drawing-room, her boudoir, her bed-chamber, were submissive in
showing bed, knickknacks, furniture. They told the tale of a corpse.

He washed and dressed, and went out to his club to dine, hating
the faces of the servants of the house, just able to bear with the
attentions of his valet.

Thunder was rattling at ten at night. The house was again the tomb.

She had high c