d the handwriting on Lady Montfort's first letter to
her, and that after that first time her letters were not enclosed in the
bag, but came apart, and were never again given to her by her host.

Thus passed days in which Sophy's time was spent chiefly in Waife's
sick-room. But now he is regaining strength hourly. To his sitting-room
comes George frequently to relieve Sophy's watch. There, once a day,
comes Guy Darrell, and what then passed between the two men none
witnessed. In these hours Waife insisted upon Sophy's going forth for
air and exercise. She is glad to steal out alone-steal down by the banks
of the calm lake, or into the gloom of the mournful woods. Here she not
unfrequently encounters Fairthorn, who, having taken more than ever to
the flute, is driven more than ever to outdoor rambles, for he has been
cautioned not to indulge in his melodious resource within doors lest he
disturb the patient.

Fairthorn and Sophy thus made acquaintance, distant and shy at first on
both sides; but it gradually became more frank and cordial. Fairthorn
had an object not altogether friendly in encouraging this intimacy. He
thought, poor man, that he should be enabled to extract from Sophy some
revelations of her early life, which would elucidate, not in favour of
her asserted claims, the mystery that hung upon her parentage. But had
Dick Fairthorn been the astutest of diplomatists, in this hope he would
have been equally disappointed. Sophy had nothing to communicate. Her
ingenuousness utterly baffled the poor flute-player. Out of an innocent,
unconscious kind of spite, on ceasing to pry into Sophy's descent, he
began to enlarge upon the dignity of Darrell's. He inflicted on her the
long-winded genealogical memoir, the recital of which had, on a previous
occasion, so nearly driven Lionel Haughton from Fawley. He took her
to see the antiquary's grave; he spoke to her, as they stood there,
of Darrell's ambitious boyhood--his arid, laborious manhood--his
determination to restore the fallen line--the very vow he had made to
the father he had so pityingly revered. He sought to impress on her the
consciousness that she was the guest of one who belonged to a race with
whom spotless honour was the all in all; and who had gone through life
with bitter sorrows, but reverencing that race, and vindicating that
honour; Fairthorn's eye would tremble--his eyes flash on her while he
talked. She, poor child, could not divine why; but she felt