The confinement of the house became absolutely hateful to him. He opened one of the French windows, stepped out upon the veranda and walked up and down in the gathering gloom, looking across the waters where the fog shifted to and fro, like ghostly shadows sent up to veil the ever restless ocean. At last Mellen passed down the steps and entered the grounds; he was some distance from the house when he heard a sound like a person moaning aloud in distress. He looked about--the mist and the coming night made it impossible to distinguish objects with any distinctness--but he saw the garments of a woman fluttering among the trees. He darted forward; with what impulse he could hardly have told; but the woman had disappeared, whether warned by his hasty movement or urged forward by some other motive, he could not tell. The thought in his mind was-- "That is my wife, Elizabeth." Then the folly of this suspicion struck him; not an hour before he had left his wife almost asleep in her room, how was it possible that she could be there, wandering about like a demented creature in the misty twilight? "I will go up to her room," he thought; "I will cure myself of these absurd fancies." He entered the house and ran upstairs quickly, opened the door of his wife's room and looked in. She was standing before the fire--at the noise of the opening door she thrust something into her bosom--a paper it looked like to Mellen--then she turned and stood silently regarding him. "You are up," he said. "Yes," she replied, a little coldly. "Did you want anything?" "Only to see if you slept--if you were coming down soon." "I shall be down directly." He hesitated an instant, then he said: "Were you not in the grounds just now?" Elizabeth did not answer; she had let her hair down and was beginning to arrange it, shading her pale face with the floating tresses. "Were you?" he inquired again. "What did you ask?" she demanded. He repeated the question. "It does not seem quite probable," she said, walking away towards the mirror. "I thought that I saw you there only a few minutes since," he said. Elizabeth was busy lighting a candle; after she had succeeded, she replied: "If you had seen me in the grounds would it have been so very singular." "No; only as I left you lying down----" She interrupted him with an impatient gesture. "I am tired of this," she said passionately. "What is it you wish to know--what do you suspect?" "Nothing, Elizabeth; I only thought it was foolish if not dangerous to go out on such a night." He was ashamed of himself now, but she did not offer to help him in his dilemma. She stood silent and still, as if waiting for him to leave the room. "We will wait tea for you," he said. "Very well." As he passed near the sofa his foot got entangled in a shawl which lay on the floor; he picked it up--it was heavy with damp. "I was given to understand that you had not been out," he exclaimed, holding it towards her.