Restless and uncomfortable, I was going into the oak-parlour a little later, when Lizzy Dene, in a smart new bonnet and plaid shawl, a small basket on her arm, came into the hall to say something to Hickens, who was there. "I suppose I may go out at this door, now I'm here?" said she, afterwards; and Hickens grunted out "Yes" as he withdrew. At that self-same moment Mrs. Penn came softly and swiftly down the stairs, and called to her. Neither of them saw me, just inside the parlour. "You are going out, I see, Lizzy. Will you do a little errand for me?" "If it won't take long," was the girl's free answer. "But I have got leave to go out to tea, and am an hour later than I thought to be." "It will not take you a minute out of your way. You know where Mr. Edwin Barley lives—the new tenant. Go to his house with this note, and desire that it may be given to him: should he not be at home, say that it must be handed to him the instant he comes in. If you do this promptly, and keep it to yourself, mind!—I will give you a crown piece!" "I'll do it, and say 'thank ye,' too, ma'am," laughed Lizzy, in glee. She opened the lid of her basket, popped in the note, and went out at the hall-door. Mrs. Penn disappeared upstairs. But Lizzy Dene had halted in the portico, and had her face turned towards the skies. "Now, is it going to rain?—or is it only the dark of the evening?" she deliberated aloud. "Better take an umbrella. I should not like my new shawl to be spoilt; and they didn't warrant the blue in it, if it got a soaking." She put down the basket, and ran back to the kitchen. Now was my opportunity. I stole to the basket, lifted the lid, and took out the letter, trusting to good luck, and to Lizzy's not looking into the basket on her return. She did not. She came back with the umbrella, snatched up the basket by its two handles, and went down the broad walk, at a run. With the letter grasped in my hand, I was hastening to my own room to read it in peace— "Read it!" interposes the reader, aghast at the dishonour. "_Read_ it?" Yes; read it. I believed that that letter was full of treachery to Chandos, and that I had unwittingly contributed to raise it, through my incautious revelation. Surely it was my duty now to do what I could to avert it, even though it involved the opening of Mrs. Penn's letter. A sudden light of suspicion seemed to have opened upon her—whispering a doubt that _she_ was treacherous. But in the hall I met the dinner coming in, and Mr. Chandos with it. Putting the note inside my dress, I sat down to table. It was a silent dinner, save for the most ordinary courtesies; Mr. Chandos was grave, preoccupied, and sorrowful; I was as grave and preoccupied as he. When the servants left, he drew a dish of walnuts towards him, peeled some, and passed them to me; then he began to peel for himself. It was upon my tongue to say No; not to accept them from him: but somehow words failed.