On being shown into a parlour, she was presently waited upon by Mr. Ainslie, who seemed to her to have come from the scene of enjoyment in the drawing-room.  She could even fancy that he eyed her as in some way standing in the path of his daughter’s expectations through Walter—­a fancy which of course would gain strength from the somewhat excited manner in which he received the words of her commission, to the effect that he would repair the next forenoon to the house of the merchant-burgess, for the purpose of preparing his last will and testament.  The notary agreed to attend, and thus, still construing appearances according to the assimilating bent of her mind, she departed for home.  After going through the routine of her domestic duties, and caring for her invalid father, she retired to bed—­that place of so-called rest, where mortals chew the cud of the thoughts of the day or of years.  And how unlike the two processes, the physical and the mental!—­in the one is brought up for a second enjoyment the green grass of nature, still fresh and palatable and nutritious; in the other, the seared leaves of memory, feeding unavailing regrets, and filling the microcosm with phantoms and dire shapes of evil, the types whereof never had an existence in the outer world.  Walter Grierson was lost to her for ever, and the dire energies of fate, as described by the artist-philosopher, seemed to hang over her, claiming, in harsh tones, her will as a mere instrument in the working out of her own destiny.

Next day Mr. Ainslie called, and was for a long time closeted with Mr. Grierson; but so careless was she now of the fortune about being left to her, and which she was satisfied would not now be a means of showing her affection for Walter, that she felt little interest in an affair which otherwise might have appeared of so much importance to her.  Her attention was, notwithstanding, claimed by an incident.  After the interview, the notary visited Walter Grierson in his room, where the young man seemed to have been waiting for him.  In ordinary circumstances it might have appeared strange that a man of business, bound to secrecy, would divulge the terms of a will to any one, but far more that he should take means for apprising a nephew that he was deprived of any share of his uncle’s means.  Nor could she account for this interview on any other supposition than that Mr. Ainslie knew of the intentions of Walter towards his daughter, and that he took this early opportunity of intimating that a disinherited young man, of the grade of a merchant’s clerk, would not, as a son-in-law, suit the expectations of an ambitious writer.  Yet out of this interview there came to, if not drawn by, her fancy a glimmer of hope, inasmuch as, if the young man were rejected by the notary in consequence of the ban of disinheritance, he would be left to the attractions of her wealth; but this supposition involved the assumption that her triumph would be over a mind that was mercenary, and not over a heart predisposed to love; nay, her generosity revolted at the thought of gratifying her long-concealed passion at the expense of the sacrificed love of another.  That other, too, had a better right to the object than she herself, in so far that Agnes Ainslie’s love had been returned, while hers had not.  But these speculations were to be brought to the test by words and actions.