“Did he say this, Michael?—­For heaven’s sake, be certain of what you tell me.”

“Irish Mike—­Masser want you in monstrous hurry,” cried the youngest of the three black men, thrusting his glistening lace into the door, announcing the object of the intrusion, and disappearing almost in the same instant.

“Do not leave me, O’Hearn,” said Maud, nearly gasping for breath, “do not leave me without an assurance there is no mistake.”

“Divil bur-r-n me if I ’d brought the box, or the message, or anything like it, phretty Miss Maud, had I t’ought it would have done this har-r-m.”

“Michael O’Hearn,” called the serjeant from the court, in his most authoritative military manner, and that on a key that would not brook denial.

Mike did not dare delay; in half a minute Maud found herself standing alone, in the centre of the library, holding the well-known snuff-box of Robert Willoughby in her little hand.  The renowned caskets of Portia had scarcely excited more curiosity in their way than this little silver box of the major’s had created in the mind of Maud.  In addition to his playful evasions about letting her and Beulah pry into its mysteries, he had once said to herself, in a grave and feeling manner, “When you get at the contents of this box, dear girl, you will learn the great secret of my life.”  These words had made a deep impression at the time—­it was in his visit of the past year—­but they had been temporarily forgotten in the variety of events and stronger sensations that had succeeded.  Mike’s message, accompanied by the box itself, however, recalled them, and Maud fancied that the major, considering himself to be in some dangerous emergency, had sent her the bauble in order that she might learn what that secret was.  Possibly he meant her to communicate it to others.  Persons in our heroine’s situation feel, more than they reason; and it is possible Maud might have come to some other conclusion had she been at leisure, or in a state of mind to examine all the circumstances in a more logical manner.

Now she was in possession of this long-coveted box—­coveted at least so far as a look into its contents were concerned—­Maud not only found herself ignorant of the secret by which it was opened, but she had scruples about using the means, even had she been in possession of them.  At first she thought of carrying the thing to Beulah, and of asking if she knew any way of getting at the spring; then she shrunk from the exposure that might possibly attend such a step.  The more she reflected, the more she felt convinced that Robert Willoughby would not have sent her that particular box, unless it were connected with herself, in some way more than common; and ever since the conversation in the painting-room she had seen glimmerings of the truth, in relation to his feelings.  These glimmerings too, had aided her in better understanding her own heart, and all her sentiments revolted at the thought of having a witness to any explanation that might relate to the subject.  In every event she determined, after a few minutes of thought, not to speak of the message, or the present, to a living soul.