selves faintly in
her brow and in her smile. You will hear more of Miss Redwood presently.
In the meanwhile, Sir Jervis made me reward his hospitality by
professional advice. He wished me to decide whether the artists whom
he had employed to illustrate his wonderful book had cheated him by
overcharges and bad work--and Mrs. Rook was sent to fetch the engravings
from his study upstairs. You remember her petrified appearance, when she
first read the inscription on your locket? The same result followed when
she found herself face to face with me. I saluted her civilly--she was
deaf and blind to my politeness. Her master snatched the illustrations
out of her hand, and told her to leave the room. She stood stockstill,
staring helplessly. Sir Jervis looked round at his sister; and I
followed his example. Miss Redwood was observing the housekeeper too
attentively to notice anything else; her brother was obliged to speak
to her. 'Try Rook with the bell,' he said. Miss Redwood took a fine old
bronze hand-bell from the table at her side, and rang it. At the shrill
silvery sound of the bell, Mrs. Rook put her hand to her head as if the
ringing had hurt her--turned instantly, and left us. 'Nobody can manage
Rook but my sister,' Sir Jervis explained; 'Rook is crazy.' Miss Redwood
differed with him. 'No!' she said. Only one word, but there were volumes
of contradiction in it. Sir Jervis looked at me slyly; meaning, perhaps,
that he thought his sister crazy too. The dinner was brought in at the
same moment, and my attention was diverted to Mrs. Rook's husband."

"What was he like?" Emily asked.

"I really can't tell you; he was one of those essentially commonplace
persons, whom one never looks at a second time. His dress was shabby,
his head was bald, and his hands shook when he waited on us at
table--and that is all I remember. Sir Jervis and I feasted on salt
fish, mutton, and beer. Miss Redwood had cold broth, with a wine-glass
full of rum poured into it by Mr. Rook. 'She's got no stomach,' her
brother informed me; 'hot things come up again ten minutes after they
have gone down her throat; she lives on that beastly mixture, and calls
it broth-grog!' Miss Redwood sipped her elixir of life, and occasionally
looked at me with an appearance of interest which I was at a loss to
understand. Dinner being over, she rang her antique bell. The shabby old
man-servant answered her call. 'Where's your wife?' she inquired. 'Ill,
miss.' She took