much given to conversing in little speeches.  He had been in London; and he described, in a correct narrative style, his impressions of St. Paul’s, the Tower, and Westminster Palace.  His brother fell in love with Mrs. Forster at first sight, and sat silent until she remarked to him how strangely the hotel omnibuses resembled old English stage coaches, when he became recklessly talkative and soon convinced her that American society produced quite as choice a compound of off-handedness and folly as London could.  But all this was amusing after her long seclusion; and once or twice, when the thought of dead Susanna came back to her, she was ashamed to be so gay.

No one was stirring at Mrs. Myers’s when she returned.  They had left her lamp in the entry; and she took it upstairs with her, going softly lest she should disturb the household.  Susanna’s usual call and petition for a few minutes talk was no longer to be feared, for Susanna was now only a memory.  Marian tried not to think of the body in the room above.  Though she was free from the dread which was just then making Eliza tremble, cry, and cross herself to sleep, she disliked the body all the more as she distinguished it from the no-longer existent woman:  a feat quite beyond the Irish peasant girl.  She sat down and began to think.  The Crawfords and their friends had been very nice to her:  no doubt the lady would not have been civil had she known all; but, then, the lady was a silly person.  They were not exactly what Marian considered the best sort of people; but New York was not London.  She would not stay at Mrs. Myers’s:  her income would enable her to lodge more luxuriously.  If she could afford to furnish some rooms for herself, she would get some curtains she had seen one day lately when shopping with Mrs. Crawford.  They would go well with——­

A noise in the room overhead:  Susanna’s death chamber.  Marian gave a great start, and understood what Eliza meant by having “the life put across in her.”  She listened, painfully conscious of the beats of her heart.  The noise came again:  a footstep, or a chair pushed back, or—­she was not certain what.  Could Mrs. Myers be watching at the bedside?  It was not unlikely.  Could Susanna be recovering—­finding herself laid out for dead, and making a struggle for life up there alone?  That would be inconvenient, undesirable:  even Marian forgot just then to consider that obvious view wrong and unfeeling; but, anyhow, she must go and see, and, if necessary, help.  She wished there were some one to keep her company; but was ashamed to call Eliza; and she felt that she would be as well by herself as with Mrs. Myers.  There was nothing for it but to take a candle and go alone.  No repetition of the noise occurred to daunt her afresh; and she reached the landing above almost reassured, and thinking how odd it was that the idea of finding somebody—­Susanna—­there, though it had come as a fear, was fading out as a disappointed hope.