“In her own room, I suppose, where she now spends the greater part of her time.  She has become reserved, and her eyes grow moist, and her cheeks flushed, if you speak to her suddenly.”

“You must seek her confidence,” said Mr. Markland.

“I want that without the apparent seeking,” was answered.  “She knows me as her truest friend, and I am waiting until she comes to me in the most unreserved freedom.”

“But will she come?”

“Oh, yes! yes!”—­was the confidently-spoken answer.  “Soon her heart will be laid open to me like the pages of a book, so that I can read all that is written there.”

“Mr. Lyon awakened a strong interest in her feelings—­that is clearly evident.”

“Too strong; and I cannot but regard his coming to Woodbine Lodge as a circumstance most likely to shadow all our future.”

“I do really believe,” said Mr. Markland, affecting a playful mood, “that you have a latent vein of superstition in your character.”

“You may think so, Edward,” was the seriously-spoken answer; “but I am very sure that the concern now oppressing my heart is far more deeply grounded than your words indicate.  Who, beside Mr. Lamar, told you that he saw, or believed that he saw, Mr. Lyon?”

“Mr. Allison.”

“Mr. Allison!”

“Yes.”

“Where did he see him?”

“He didn’t see him at all,” confidently answered Mr. Markland.  “He saw Mr. Willet.”

“He believed that the person he saw was Mr. Lyon.”

“So did I, until a nearer approach convinced me that I was in error.  If I could be deceived, the fact that Mr. Allison was also deceived is by no means a remarkable circumstance.”

“Was it in this neighbourhood that he saw the person he believed to be Mr Lyon?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Markland’s eyes fell to the ground, and she sat, for a long time, so entirely abstracted, as almost to lose her consciousness of external things.

“The dew is rather heavy this evening,” said her husband, arousing her by the words.  She arose, and they went together into the sitting-room, where they found all but Fanny.  Soon after, Mr. Markland went to his library, and gave up his thoughts entirely to the new business in which he was engaged with Mr. Lyon.  How, golden was the promise that lured him on!  He was becoming impatient to tread with swift feet the path to large wealth and honourable distinction that was opening before him.  A new life had been born in his mind—­it was something akin to ambition.  In former times, business was regarded as the means by which a competency might be obtained; and he pursued it with this end.  Having secured wealth, he retired from busy life, hoping to find ample enjoyment in the seclusion of an elegant rural home.  But, already, restlessness had succeeded to inactivity, and now his mind was gathering up its latent strength for new efforts, in new and broader fields, and under the spur of a more vigorous impulse.