not immediately
concerning himself; but he did feel curious about this melancholy and
beautiful woman. There was in her usual aspect that inexpressible look
of profound resignation which betokens a lasting remembrance of a bitter
past: a prematurely blighted heart spoke in her eyes, in her smile, her
languid and joyless step. But she performed the routine of her quiet
duties with a calm and conscientious regularity which showed that grief
rather depressed than disturbed her thoughts. If her burden were heavy,
custom seemed to have reconciled her to bear it without repining; and
the emotion which Ferrers now traced in her soft and harmonious features
was of a nature he had only once witnessed before--viz., on the first
night he had seen her, when poetry, which is the key of memory, had
evidently opened a chamber haunted by mournful and troubled ghosts.

"Ah! dear madam," said Ferrers, advancing, as he found himself
discovered, "I trust I do not disturb you. My visit is unseasonable; but
my uncle--where is he?"

"He has been in town all the morning; he said he should dine out, and I
now expect him every minute."

"You have been endeavouring to charm away the sense of his absence. Dare
I ask you to continue to play? It is seldom that I hear a voice so
sweet and skill so consummate. You must have been instructed by the best
Italian masters."

"No," said Mrs. Templeton, with a very slight colour in her delicate
cheek, "I learned young, and of one who loved music and felt it; but who
was not a foreigner."

"Will you sing me that song again?--you give the words a beauty I never
discovered in them; yet they (as well as the music itself), are by my
poor friend whom Mr. Templeton does not like--Maltravers."

"Are they his also?" said Mrs. Templeton, with emotion; "it is strange I
did not know it. I heard the air in the streets, and it struck me much.
I inquired the name of the song and bought it--it is very strange!"

"What is strange?"

"That there is a kind of language in your friend's music and poetry
which comes home to me, like words I have heard years ago! Is he young,
this Mr. Maltravers?"

"Yes, he is still young."

"And, and--"

Here Mrs. Templeton was interrupted by the entrance of her husband.
He held the letter from Lord Saxingham--it was yet unopened. He seemed
moody; but that was common with him. He coldly shook hands with Lumley;
nodded to his wife, found fault with the fire, and throwing himself into