it. She was astonished."

"Or seemed so," was Mrs. Lessingham's inward comment, as she smiled
acquiescence. "He has impressed me agree ably," she continued, "but
there's a danger that he will never do justice to himself."

"I don't put much faith in him myself," said Mrs. Bradshaw, meaning
nothing more by the phrase than that she considered Reuben a
ne'er-do-well. The same words would have expressed her lack of
confidence in a servant subjected to some suspicion.

Mrs. Lessingham was closely observant of her niece this evening, and
grew confirmed in distrust, in solicitude. Cecily was more than ever
unlike herself--whimsical, abstracted, nervous; she flushed at an
unexpected sound, could not keep the same place for more than a few
minutes. Much before the accustomed hour, she announced her retirement
for the night.

"Let me feel your pulse," said Mrs. Lessingham, as if in jest, when the
girl approached her.

Cecily permitted it, half averting her face.

"My child, you are feverish."

"A little, I believe, aunt. It will pass by the morning."

"Let us hope so. But I don't like that kind of thing at Naples. I trust
you haven't had a chill?"

"Oh dear, no! I never was better in my life!"

"Yet with fever? Go to bed. Very likely I shall look into your room in
the night.--Cecily!"

It stopped her at her door. She turned, and took a step back. Mrs.
Lessingham moved towards her.

"You haven't forgotten anything that you wished to say to me?"

"Forgotten? No, dear aunt."

"It just come back to my mind that you were on the point of saying
something a little while ago, and I interrupted you."

"No. Good night."

Mrs. Lessingham did enter the girl's room something after midnight,
carrying a dim taper. Cecily was asleep, but lay as though fatigue had
overcome her after much restless moving upon the pillow. Her face was
flushed; one of her hands, that on the coverlet, kept closing itself
with a slight spasm. The visitor drew apart and looked about the
chamber. Her eyes rested on a little writing-desk, where lay a directed
envelope. She looked at it, and found it was addressed to a French
servant of theirs in Paris, an excellent woman who loved Cecily, and to
whom the girl had promised to write from Italy. The envelope was
closed; but it could contain nothing of importance--was merely an
indication of Cecily's abiding kindness. By this lay a small book, from
the pages of which protruded a piece of white paper. Mrs