“Oh, no, ma’am, he never quarrels; he is very quiet, and keeps to himself always; he thinks a wonderful deal of himself,” replied the servant.

“But, you said that he is much changed—­did you not?” continued the lady; for there was something strangely excited and unpleasant in the man’s manner, in this little interview, which struck Mrs. Marston, and alarmed her curiosity.  He had seemed like one charged with some horrible secret—­intolerable, and which he yet dared not reveal.

“What,” proceeded Mrs. Marston, “is the nature of the change of which you speak?”

“Why, ma’am, he is like one frightened, and in sorrow,” she replied; “he will sit silent, and now and then shaking his head, as if he wanted to get rid of something that is teasing him, for an hour together.”

“Poor man!” said she.

“And, then, when we are at meals, he will, all on a sudden, get up, and leave the table; and Jem Boulter, that sleeps in the next room to him, says, that, almost as often as he looks through the little window between the two rooms, no matter what hour in the night, he sees Mr. Merton on his knees by the bedside, praying or crying, he don’t know which; but, any way, he is not happy—­poor man!—­and that is plain enough.”

“It is very strange,” said the lady, after a pause; “but, I think, and hope, after all, it will prove to have been no more than a little nervousness.”

“Well, ma’am, I do hope it is not his conscience that is coming against him, now,” said the maid.

“We have no reason to suspect anything of the kind,” said Mrs. Marston, gravely, “quite the reverse; he has been always a particularly proper man.”

“Oh, indeed,” responded the attendant, “goodness forbid I should say or think anything against him; but I could not help telling you my mind, ma’am, meaning no harm.”

“And, how long is it since you observed this sad change in poor Merton?” persisted the lady.

“Not, indeed, to say very long, ma’am,” replied the girl; “somewhere about a week, or very little more—­at least, as we remarked, ma’am.”

Mrs. Marston pursued her inquiries no further that night.  But, although she affected to treat the matter thus lightly, it had, somehow, taken a painful hold upon her imagination, and left in her mind those undefinable and ominous sensations, which, in certain mental temperaments, seem to foreshadow the approach of unknown misfortune.

For two or three days, everything went on smoothly, and pretty much as usual.  At the end of this brief interval, however, the attention of Mrs. Marston was recalled to the subject of her servant’s mysterious anxiety to leave, and give up his situation.  Merton again stood before her, and repeated the intimation he had already given.

“Really, Merton, this is very odd,” said the lady.  “You like your situation, and yet you persist in desiring to leave it.  What am I to think?”