ired fly
at the inn, and came up slowly to those grand old silent trees.

Without sunshine, white in nature is always most solemn. Here stillness
was added; not a bird was yet awake, not a leaf stirred. A faint bluish
haze appeared to confuse the outlines of the trees, but as he lingered
looking at them and at the house which he had now fully decided to take
for his home, Mr. Melcombe saw this haze dissolve itself and retreat;
there was light enough to make the paleness whiter, and to show the
distinct brown trunk of each pear-tree, with the cushions of green moss
at its roots. Formless whiteness and visible dusk had divided themselves
into light and shade, then came a shaft of sunshine, the boughs laden
with dewy blossom sparkled like snow, and in one instant the oppression
of their solemnity was over, and they appeared to smile upon his
approach to his home.

He had done everything he could think of, and knew not how to devise
anything further, and yet this secret, if there was one, would not come
forward and look him in the face. He had searched the house in the first
instance for letters and papers; there were some old letters, and old
papers also, but not one that did not seem to be as clear in the
innocence of its meaning as possible; there was even one that set at
rest doubt and fear which he had hitherto entertained. He had found no
closets in the wall, no locked chambers; he had met with no mysterious
silences, mysterious looks, mysterious words. Then he had gone to meet
the bereaved mother, that if she had anything to say in the way of
warning to him, or repentance for herself, he might lay himself out to
hear it; but no, he had found her generally not willing to talk, but all
she did say showed tender reverence for the dead Melcombes, and
passionate grief for her boy who had been taken, as she said, before he
was old enough even to estimate at its due value the prosperous and
happy career he had before him. He tried Laura. Laura, though sincerely
sorry for poor little Peter's death, was very sentimental; told
Valentine, to his surprise, that it was mainly on her account they had
wintered on the Continent, and with downcast eyes and mysterious
confusion that made him tremble, at first utterly declined to tell him
the reason.

When he found, therefore, that Mrs. Melcombe did not care at present to
return to England, and was far better able than he was to arrange her
journey when she did, he might have come h