d there watchful and vigilant, like a keen fencer on
guard, waiting to see what the first spoken word might disclose;
waiting to see what that grand lordly face, with its air of command,
its repressed grief, its deep piercing eyes, might shadow forth.

A singular meeting; but Lord Chetwynde seemed to think it natural
enough, and after a few moments he remarked, in a quiet voice:

"Lady Chetwynde, the morning-room will be more suitable for the
interview which I wish, and, if you have no objection, we will go
there."

At the sound of these words a great revulsion took place in Hilda's
feelings, and a sense of triumph succeeded to that intense anxiety
which for so long a time had consumed her. The sound of that name by
which he had addressed her had shown her at once that the worst part
of this crisis had passed away. He had seen her. He had scrutinized
her with those eyes which seemed to read her soul, and the end was
that he had taken her for what she professed to be. He had called her
"Lady Chetwynde!" After this what more was there which could excite
fear? Was not her whole future now secured by the utterance of those
two words? Yet Hilda's self-control was so perfect, and her vigilance
so consummate, that no change whatever expressed in her face the
immense revolution of feeling within her. Her eyes fell--that was
all; and as she bowed her head silently, by that simple gesture which
was at once natural and courteous, she effectually concealed her
face; so that, even if there had been a change in its expression, it
could not have been seen. Yet, after all, the triumph was but
instantaneous. It passed away, and soon there came another feeling,
vague, indefinable--a premonition of the future--a presentiment of
gloom; and though the intensity of the suspense had passed, there
still remained a dark anxiety and a fear which were unaccountable.

Lord Chetwynde led the way to the morning-room, and on arriving there
he motioned her to a seat. Hilda sat down. He sat opposite in another
chair, not far off. On the wall, where each could see it, hung his
portrait--the figure of that beardless, boyish, dashing young
officer--very different from this matured, strong-souled man; so
different, indeed, that it seemed hardly possible that they could be
the same.

Lord Chetwynde soon began.

"Lady Chetwynde," said he, again addressing her by that name, and
speaking in a firm yet melancholy voice, "it is not often that a
husband a