Mademoiselle de Barras sate down, and, as she did so, read the countenance of her patroness with one rapid glance of her flashing eyes.  These eyes, however, when Mrs. Marston looked at her the next moment, were sunk softly and sadly upon the floor.  There was a heightened color, however, in her cheek, and a quicker heaving of her bosom, which indicated the excitement of an anticipated and painful disclosure.  The outward contrast of the two women, whose hands were so lovingly locked together, was almost as striking as the moral contrast of their hearts.  The one, so chastened, sad, and gentle; the other, so capable of pride and passion; so darkly excitable, and yet so mysteriously beautiful.  The one, like a Niobe seen in the softest moonshine; the other, a Venus, lighted in the glare of distant conflagration.

“Mademoiselle, dear mademoiselle, I am so much grieved at what I have to say, that I hardly know how to speak to you,” said poor Mrs. Marston, pressing her hand; “but Mr. Marston has twice desired me to tell you, what you will hear with far less pain than it costs me to say it.”

Mademoiselle de Barras stole another flashing glance at her companion, but did not speak.

“Mr. Marston still persists, mademoiselle, in desiring that we shall part.”

“Est-il possible?” cried the Frenchwoman, with a genuine start.

“Indeed, mademoiselle, you may well be surprised,” said Mrs. Marston, encountering her full and dilated gaze, which, however, dropped again in a moment to the ground.  “You may, indeed, naturally be surprised and shocked at this, to me, most severe decision.”

“When did he speak last of it?” said she, rapidly.

“But a few moments since,” answered Mrs. Marston.

“Ha,” said mademoiselle, and remained silent and motionless for more than a minute.

“Madame,” she cried at last, mournfully, “I suppose, then, I must go; but it tears my heart to leave you and dear Miss Rhoda.  I would be very happy if, before departing, you would permit me, dear madame, once more to assure Mr. Marston of my innocence, and, in his presence, to call heaven to witness how unjust are all his suspicions.”

“Do so, mademoiselle, and I will add my earnest assurances again; though, heaven knows,” she said, despondingly, “I anticipate little success; but it is well to leave no chance untried.”

Marston was sitting, as we have said, in his library.  His agitation had given place to a listless gloom, and he leaned back in his chair, his head supported by his hand, and undisturbed, except by the occasional fall of the embers upon the hearth.  There was a knock at the chamber door.  His back was towards it, and, without turning or moving, he called to the applicant to enter.  The door opened—­closed again:  a light tread was audible—­a tall shadow darkened the wall:  Marston looked round, and Mademoiselle de Barras was standing before him.  Without knowing how or why, he rose, and stood gazing upon her in silence.