fall upon him, he opens the
door and enters.

"Well, I am off, Nancy!" he says, speaking in his usual cool, friendly
voice, to which I have now grown so accustomed that sometimes I could
almost persuade myself that I had never known any lovinger terms; and
standing with the door-handle in his hand.

He rarely kisses me now; never upon any of these little temporary
absences. We always part with polite, cold, verbal salutations. Then,
with a sudden change of tone, approaching me as he speaks.

"Is there any thing the matter? have you had bad news?"

My eyes drop at length from the scroll and pomegranate flower border of
the ceiling. I sit up, and, with an involuntary movement, put my hand
over the open letter that lies in my lap.

"I have had news," I answer, dubiously.

"If it is any thing that you had rather not tell me!" he says, hastily,
observing my stupid and unintentional gesture, and, I suppose, afraid
that I am about to drift into a second series of lies--"please do not. I
would not for worlds thrust myself on your confidence!"

"It is no secret of mine," I answer, coldly, "everybody will know it
immediately, I suppose: it is that Barbara--" I stop, as usual choked as
I approach the abhorred theme. "Will you read the letter, please? that
will be better!--yes--I had rather that you did--it will not take you
long; yes, _all_ of it!" (seeing that he is holding the note in his hand
and conscientiously looking away from it as if expecting limitation as
to the amount he is to peruse).

He complies. There is silence--an expectant silence on my part. It is
not of long duration. Before ten seconds have elapsed the note has
fallen from his hand; and, with an exclamation of the profoundest
astonishment, he is looking with an expression of the most keenly
questioning wonder at me.

"To MUSGRAVE!"

I nod. I have judiciously placed myself with my back to the light, so
that, if that exasperating flood of crimson bathe my face--and bathe it
it surely will--is not it coming now?--do not I feel it creeping hotly
up?--it may be as little perceptible as possible.

"It must be a great, great _surprise_ to you!" he says, interrogatively,
and still with that sound of extreme and baffled wonder in his tone.

"Immense!" reply I.

I speak steadily if low; and I look determinedly back in his face.
Whatever color my cheeks are--I believe they are of the devil's own
painting--I feel that my eyes are honest. He has picked up t