of your character has entered my mind," said Mrs. Marston,
very kindly.

"Oh, ma'am, you are too good," sobbed the poor man, vehemently. "You
don't know me, ma'am; I never knew myself till lately. I am a miserable
man. I am frightened at myself, ma'am--frightened terribly. Christ knows,
it would be well for me I was dead this minute."

"I am very sorry for your unhappiness, Merton," said Mrs. Marston; "and,
especially, that I can do nothing to alleviate it; I can but speak, as I
have said, to your master, and he will give you your discharge, and
arrange whatever else remains to be done."

"God bless you, ma'am," said the servant, still much agitated, and left
her.

Mr. Marston usually passed the early part of the day in active exercise,
and she, supposing that he was, in all probability, at that moment far
from home, went to "mademoiselle's" chamber, which was at the other end
of the spacious house, to confer with her in the interval upon the
strange application thus urged by poor Merton.

Just as she reached the door of Mademoiselle de Barras's chamber, she
heard voices within exerted in evident excitement. She stopped in
amazement. They were those of her husband and mademoiselle. Startled,
confounded, and amazed, she pushed open the door, and entered. Her
husband was sitting, one hand clutched upon the arm of the chair he
occupied, and the other extended, and clenched, as it seemed, with the
emphasis of rage, upon the desk that stood upon the table. His face was
darkened with the stormiest passions, and his gaze was fixed upon the
Frenchwoman, who was standing with a look half-guilty, half-imploring,
at a little distance.

There was something, to Mrs. Marston, so utterly unexpected, and even so
shocking, in this tableau, that she stood for some seconds pale and
breathless, and gazing with a vacant stare of fear and horror from her
husband to the French girl, and from her to her husband again. The three
figures in this strange group remained fixed, silent, and aghast, for
several seconds. Mrs. Marston endeavored to speak; but, though her lips
moved, no sound escaped her; and, from very weakness, she sank,
half-fainting, into a chair.

Marston rose, throwing, as he did so, a guilty and furious glance at the
young Frenchwoman, and walked a step or two toward the door; he
hesitated, however, and turned, just as mademoiselle, bursting into
tears, threw her arms round Mrs. Marston's neck, and passionately
exclaimed