“I am not really sick, aunt, but I have no appetite, and having a great deal to think of, I preferred staying here to going to the table,” was her answer to Mrs Sutton’s inquiries.

“Your hands are cold and lifeless as clay, my child.  What is the matter?  It is not like you to be moping up here, alone in the dark.”

“Won’t you leave me to myself for a while, and keep Rosa down-stairs?” asked Mabel, more patiently than peevishly.  “Before bed-time I will see you in your room, and we can talk of what has disturbed me.”

“My daughter,” murmured the gentle-hearted chaperone, trying to draw the erect head to her shoulder, as she stood by her niece.

Mabel resisted the kindly force.

“No, no, aunt.  I cannot bear that yet.  I have just begun to think connectedly, and petting would unnerve me.”

This was strange talk from the frank-hearted child she had reared from babyhood, and while she desisted from further attempts at consolation, Aunt Rachel took a very sober visage back to the supper-room with her, and as little appetite as Rosa had manifested.  The meal was quickly over, and by way of obeying the second part of Mabel’s behest, the innocent diplomatist begged Rosa to go to the piano.

“I always enjoy your delightful music, my dear.  It makes the house more lively.”

“Thank you, dear Mrs. Sutton.  I should take pleasure in obliging you; but if Mabel is out of sorts, I don’t believe she will care to have the house lively to-night,” was the amiable rejoinder.  “Moreover, I am dying to finish ‘David Copperfield.’  Will you allow me to curl myself up in the big chair here, and read for an hour?”

Mrs. Sutton gave a consent that was almost glad in its alacrity, and pretended to occupy herself with the newspapers brought by the evening mail, until she judged that Mabel had had season in which to compose her thoughts.  Then she muttered something about “breakfast,” “muffins,” and “Daphne,” caught up her key-basket, and bustled out.

Rosa’s book fell from before her face at the sound of the closing door.  The liquid eyes were turbid; her features moved by some passion mightier far than curiosity or compassion for her friend’s distress.

“I have done nothing—­literally nothing, to bring this on!” was the reflection which brought most calm to her agitated mind.  “If it should be as I think, I am guiltless of treachery.  My skirts are clear.  My hands are clean!  Yet there have been moments when I could have dipped them in blood that this end might be attained!”

Too restless to remain quiet, she tossed her book aside and wandered from side to side of the room, halting frequently to hearken for Mrs. Sutton’s return, or some noise from the conference chamber that might alleviate her suspense.

“I tried to put her on her guard,” she broke forth at length, bent, it would seem, upon self-justification against an invisible accuser.  “I saw aversion in Winston’s eye the day he came home to find the other here.  He would never forgive his slave the presumption of choosing a husband for herself.  Did I not tell her so?  Yet this has caught her like a rabbit in a trap—­unprepared for endurance or resistance.  The spiritless baby!  Would I give him up, except with life, if he loved me as he does her?”