More than once Mellen saw the dark brows contract as if under actual distress, and as he ceased to speak, and seemed wholly absorbed in his book, he could see that her reverie became more absorbing and painful. "Elizabeth!" he said suddenly. His wife started. In her preoccupation she had forgotten that he was in the room--forgotten that she was not alone with those dark reflections which cast their shadow over her face. "Did you speak, Grantley?" "Yes; how you started!" "Did I start?" she asked, trying to laugh. "I don't know how it is that I grow so nervous." "You never were so afflicted formerly." "No; I don't remember," she replied quickly. "But you know I had a good deal of care and responsibility during your absence; it may be that which has shaken me a little." "Do you believe it?" he asked, in a constrained voice. She shot one glance of indignant pride at him; for an instant she looked inclined to leave the room, as had frequently been her habit during the first months of their marriage, when he irritated her beyond endurance. But if Elizabeth had the inclination she controlled it. After a moment's silence she laid down her work and approached the sofa where he was lying. "Don't be severe with me, Grantley," she said, with a degree of humility unknown to the past; "my head aches drearily--I don't think I am well." His feelings changed as he looked at her; she was not well; he could see the traces of pain in the languid eyes and the contracted forehead, but whether the suffering was mental or physical even a physiognomist could not have told. He reached out his hand and drew her towards him; she sat down on the sofa and leaned her head against his shoulder with a little sigh of weariness. "I can rest here," she whispered; "it is my place, isn't it, Grantley?" There was tender, almost childish pleading in her voice; he lifted her face, looked into her eyes and saw tears there. "What is it, Bessie?" he asked. "Have I hurt you?" The recollection of all the doubts and suspicious thoughts which had been in his mind came back, and forgetful of his idea that some recent anxiety made the change in her manner, he reproached himself with having brought a cloud between them by his own actions. "Have I pained you in anything, Bessie?" he repeated. "I feared the old trouble was coming back," she whispered. "No, no; it must not, it shall not, Bessie! I am to blame--but if you knew what this wretched disposition makes me suffer! Every heart I trusted in my early life deceived me. I have only you left now--you and Elsie." Perhaps it was natural that she should feel a little wifely jealousy at having his sister forced in, even to their closest confidence; her face was overclouded for an instant, but she subdued the feeling and said, kindly: "I know what you have suffered, dear; I can understand the effect it has had upon your character--but you may trust me--indeed you may." "I know that, dear wife; I believe that!"