It was somewhat past his usual hour of rising when John Friendleton next morning came downstairs. The storm was over, but everywhere had it left its traces in broken boughs, overturned fences, and dilapidated chimneys, so that as he looked from the window, John could see on all sides the evidences of its violence. The house was strangely quiet, and he looked about him with the impatience of a lover for his wife, that she might chase away the unaccustomed sombreness which seemed to have descended upon the place. "Dinah," he asked, "has not your mistress risen?" The mute regarded him with a strange appearance of wildness and terror, but she replied by a shake of the head,--instantly hurrying out of the room as if in fear. John looked after her an instant in bewilderment, not understanding her odd manner; and then approaching the door of the room occupied by his wife, he tapped softly. There was no response. He tapped again somewhat more loudly. Still there was no reply. A third time he rapped, now with a heavy hand. All within was as silent as the grave. Startled by he knew not what fear, with a sudden impulse he set his strong shoulder to the door, and strained until with a crash it flew open. The heavy curtains were undrawn, and a grey gloom filled the chamber. A fearful silence followed the crash of the breaking lock, and met him like a palpable terror. He saw Rose lying on the bed, her face buried in the pillows; and by some fantastic jugglery, the light from the open door, as it fell upon her hair,--those abundant tresses whose rich, dark glory he so loved,--seemed to silver them to the whiteness of hoary age. "Rose!" he cried, starting forward to seize her hand which lay upon the coverlid. The hand was cold with a chill which smote him to the very heart. "Rose! Sweetheart!" he cried in a piercing voice, bending over and tenderly turning her dear face up to the light. What horrible mockery confronted him? He started back like one stung by a serpent! Along the pillow lay a crushed and withered tuberose, and he looked upon the face, ghastly in death, and old and haggard and wrinkled--of Mistress Henshaw. Interlude Second. AN EVENING AT WHIST. AN EVENING AT WHIST. [_The scene is the parlor of a modern house, much adorned, and furnished with a wealth of bric-a-brac, which renders getting about a most difficult and delicate operation, unless one is wholly regardless of the consequences to the innumerable ornaments. Mrs. Greeleigh Vaughn, a corpulent and well-preserved widow, who passes for forty, and is not less, has just seated herself at the whist-table, with her daughter and two guests. One of these, Mr. Amptill Talbot, is one of those young men whose wits seem to be in some mysterious fashion closely connected with the parting of their hair exactly in the middle; the other is a handsome and keen-eyed gentleman of middle age, who answers to the name Colonel Graham._]