“I don’t know what has come over Fanny,” said Mrs. Markland.  “She isn’t at all like herself.”  And as she uttered these words, not meaning them for other ears than her own, she followed her daughter into the house.

“Don’t know what’s come over Fanny!” said Aunt Grace to herself, as she moved up and down the vine-wreathed portico—­“well, well,—­some people are blind.  This is like laying a block in a man’s way, and wondering that he should fall down.  Don’t know what’s come over Fanny?  Dear! dear!”

Enough had been said by her sister-in-law to give direction to the vague anxieties awakened in the mind of Mrs. Markland by the recent deportment of her husband.  He was not only absent in the city every day, but his mind was so fully occupied when at home, that he took little interest in the family circle.  Sometimes he remained alone in the library until a late hour at night; and his sleep, when he did retire, was not sound; a fact but too well known to his wakeful partner.

All through this day there was an unusual pressure on the feelings of Mrs. Markland.  When she inquired of herself as to the cause, she tried to be satisfied with assigning it wholly to the remarks of her sister-in-law, and not to any really existing source of anxiety.  But in this she was far from being successful; and the weight continued to grow heavier as the hours moved on.  Earlier than she had expected its return, the carriage was announced, and Mrs. Markland, with a suddenly-lightened heart, went tripping over the lawn to meet her husband at the outer gate.  “Where is Mr. Markland?” she exclaimed, growing slightly pale, on reaching the carriage, and seeing that it was empty.

“Gone to New York,” answered the coachman, at the same time handing a letter.

“To New York!  When did he go?” Mrs. Markland’s thoughts were thrown into sudden confusion.

“He went at five o’clock, on business.  Said he must be there to-morrow morning.  But he’ll tell you all about it in the letter, ma’am.”

Recovering herself, Mrs. Markland stepped from the side of the carriage, and as it passed on, she broke the seal of her letter, which she found to contain one for Fanny, directed in a hand with which she was not familiar.

“A letter for you, dear,” she said; for Fanny was now by her side.

“Who is it from?  Where is father?” asked Fanny in the same breath.

“Your father has gone to New York,” said Mrs. Markland, with forced composure.

Fanny needed no reply to the first question; her heart had already given the answer.  With a flushed cheek and quickening pulse, she bounded away from her mother’s side, and returning into the house, sought the retirement of her own chamber.