e spy and the maligner; she
could not bear it. Some one had evidently been endeavoring to procure her
removal, and had but too effectually succeeded. Mademoiselle was
determined to go early the next morning; nothing should prevent or retard
her departure; her resolution was taken. In this strain did mademoiselle
run on, but in a subdued and melancholy tone, and weeping profusely.

The wild and ghastly suspicions which had for a moment flashed terribly
upon the mind of Mrs. Marston, had faded away under the influences of
reason and reflection, although, indeed, much painful excitement still
remained, before Mademoiselle de Barras had visited her room. Marston's
temper she knew but too well; it was violent, bitter, and impetuous; and
though he cared little, if at all, for her, she had ever perceived that
he was angrily jealous of the slightest intimacy or confidence by which
any other than himself might establish an influence over her mind. That
he had learned the subject of some of her most interesting conversations
with mademoiselle she could not doubt, for he had violently upbraided
that young lady in her presence with having discussed it, and here now
was mademoiselle herself taking refuge with her from galling affront and
unjust reproach, incensed, wounded, and weeping. The whole thing was
consistent; all the circumstances bore plainly in the same direction; the
evidence was conclusive; and Mrs. Marston's thoughts and feelings
respecting her fair young confidante quickly found their old level, and
flowed on tranquilly and sadly in their accustomed channel.

While Mademoiselle de Barras was thus, with the persevering industry of
the spider, repairing the meshes which a chance breath had shattered, she
would, perhaps, have been in her turn shocked and startled, could she
have glanced into Marston's mind, and seen, in what was passing there,
the real extent of her danger.

Marston was walking, as usual, alone, and in the most solitary region of
his lonely park. One hand grasped his walking stick, not to lean upon it,
but as if it were the handle of a battle-axe; the other was buried in his
bosom; his dark face looked upon the ground, and he strode onward with a
slow but energetic step, which had the air of deep resolution. He found
himself at last in a little churchyard, lying far among the wild forest
of his demesne, and in the midst of which, covered with ivy and tufted
plants, now ruddy with autumnal tints, stood th