Oblige my _what?_ Was he going to say 'sister-in-law' when he suddenly stopped himself? But, if so, why should he have stopped himself? And how could she be his sister-in-law? Were she the wife of Sir Thomas, she would be Lady Chandos; and Emily had said her brother Thomas was not married. She had said she had but two brothers, Thomas and Harry; who, then, was this young Mrs. Chandos? That she had a husband living was apparent, from the conversation I had just heard; and I had imagined all along that she must be the daughter-in-law of Lady Chandos. These thoughts passed through my head as I ran down for the kitten. Mr. Chandos handed it to me, and turned away, for he was called to by some one at a distance. At the same moment the kitten was taken from my hands. It was by Mrs. Freeman, who had also come down. "I hope it is not hurt, poor thing," she said, looking at it. "It seems lively enough." "Mr. Chandos said it was not hurt, when he gave it to me." "Oh, that's right. Had it been hurt, Mrs. Chandos would have grieved over it. She is fond of this kitten; and she has so few pleasures, poor child!" "Who _is_ Mrs. Chandos?" I asked, in a low tone. "Madam?" returned Mrs. Freeman. The tone—cold, haughty, reserved—struck me as conveying the keenest reproach for my unjustifiable curiosity; unjustifiable so far as that I had betrayed it. I faltered forth the question again—for she seemed looking at me and waiting; and it might be that she had not heard it. "Who is Mrs. Chandos?" "Mrs. Chandos?" was the answer. "Who should she be? She is Mrs. Chandos." And Mrs. Freeman stalked away. That same evening at dusk, the dog Nero was taken away. A few words spoken by Hickens to his master enlightened me as to the exit. "Is he going to be shot?" I asked, impulsively, of Mr. Chandos. "Oh no. A farmer living near has promised to take care of him." But the tone was not quite so free as usual, and I said no more. CHAPTER XIII. A SHOCK. The time passed monotonously. Always looking upon myself as an intruder, an unwelcome interloper, I could not feel at home at Chandos. A letter arrived in course of post from Emily de Mellissie, saying she had found her husband certainly ill, but not as much so as "la mère" had been willing to lead them to expect. In a few days she should write and fix the date of her return. I was at a loss what to do in more senses than one. Not liking to sit down to the piano uninvited—and no one did invite me—it remained closed. Now and then, when I knew that neither Lady Chandos nor her son was at home, I would play quietly for a few minutes—stealthily might be the best term. Twice Lady Chandos took me for a drive; she went herself every day; generally taking Mrs. Chandos. The latter I very rarely saw at any time.