shed a mellow glow upon her, softening her features and harmonising
the tints of the objects around. From beneath the hem of her skirt a
neat ankle encased in its black silk stocking was thrust coquettishly
forward, and her tiny patent leather slipper was stretched out to the
warmth of the fire. Her pose was, however, restful and natural. She
loved luxury, and made no secret of it. The hour after dinner was
always her hour of laziness, and she usually spent it in that
self-same chair, in that self-same position.

She was twenty-five, the youngest daughter of old Thomas Mivart, who
was squire of Neneford, in Northamptonshire, a well-known hunting-man
of his day, who had died two years ago leaving a widow, a charming
lady, who lived alone at the Manor. To me it had always been a mystery
why the craving for gaiety and amusement had never seized Ethelwynn.
She was by far the more beautiful of the pair, the smartest in dress,
and the wittier in speech, for possessed of a keen sense of humour,
she was interesting as well as handsome--the two qualities which are
_par excellence_ necessary for a woman to attain social success.

She stirred slightly as she broke the silence, and then I detected in
her a nervousness which I had not noticed on first entering the room.

"Sir Bernard Eyton was down here yesterday and spent over an hour with
the old gentleman. They sent the nurse out of the room and talked
together for a long time, upon some private business, nurse thinks.
When Sir Bernard came down he told me in confidence that Mr. Courtenay
was distinctly weaker."

"Yes," I said, "Sir Bernard told me that, but I must confess that
to-night I find a decided improvement in him. He's sitting up quite
lively."

"Very different to a month ago," my well-beloved remarked. "Do you
recollect when Short went to London in a hansom and brought you down
at three in the morning?"

"I gave up all hope when I saw him on that occasion," I said; "but he
certainly seems to have taken a new lease of life."

"Do you think he really has?" she inquired with an undisguised
eagerness which struck me as distinctly curious. "Do you believe that
Sir Bernard's fears are after all ungrounded?"

I looked at her surprised. She had never before evinced such a keen
interest in her sister's husband, and I was puzzled.

"I really can't give an opinion," I responded mechanically, for want
of something or other to say.

It was curious, that question of her