d a moment at the bedroom
window, then he tiptoed out into the sitting-room. He stole across
the hall into the best parlor. He raised a window in there
noiselessly, looked out, and listened. There was a grove of pines and
spruces on that side of the house. There was a bench under a pine.
Upon this bench Henry gradually perceived a whiteness more opaque
than that of the fog. He heard a voice, then a responsive murmur.
Then the fragrant smoke of a cigar came directly in his face. Henry
shook his head. He remained motionless a moment. Then he left the
room, and going into the hall stole up-stairs. The door of the
southwest chamber stood wide open. Henry entered. He was trembling
like a woman. He loved the young man, and suspicions, like dreadful,
misshapen monsters, filled his fancy. He peeped into the little room
which he and Sylvia had fitted up as a bedroom for Horace, and it was
vacant.

Henry went noiselessly back down-stairs and into his own room. He lay
down without disturbing his wife, but he did not fall asleep. After
what seemed to him a long time he heard a stealthy footstep on the
stair, and again smelled the aroma of a cigar which floated down from
overhead.

That awoke Sylvia. "I declare, he's smoking again," she murmured,
sleepily. "It's a dreadful habit."

Henry made no reply. He breathed evenly, pretending to be asleep.

Chapter V

Although it was easy for a man, especially for a young marriageable
man, to obtain board in East Westland, it was not so easy for a
woman; and the facts of her youth and good looks, and presumably
marriageable estate, rendered it still more difficult. There was in
the little village a hotel, so-called, which had formerly been the
tavern. It was now the East Westland House. Once it had been the Sign
of the Horse. The old sign-board upon which a steed in flaming red,
rampant upon a crude green field against a crude blue sky, had been
painted by some local artist, all unknown to fame, and long since at
rest in the village graveyard, still remained in the hotel attic,
tilted under the dusty eaves.

The Sign of the Horse had been in former days a flourishing hostelry,
before which, twice a day, the Boston and the Alford stages had drawn
up with mighty flourishes of horns and gallant rearings of jaded
steeds. Scarcely a night but it had been crowded by travellers who
stayed overnight for the sake of the good beds and the good table and
good bar. Now there was no bar. Ea