The question was solemnly, suddenly spoken. It staggered me. What could it mean? That there was a meaning in it--a deep meaning--was unquestionable. But of what nature? Did the venerable man suspect my secret--could he by any chance conjecture my purpose? It is one quality of a mind not exactly satisfied of the propriety of its proceedings, to be suspicious of all things and persons--to fancy that the consciousness which distresses itself, is also the consciousness of its neighbors. Hence the blush upon the cheek--the faltering accents--the tremulousness of limb, and feebleness of movement. For a moment after the old man spoke--troubled with this consciousness, I could not answer. But my self-esteem came to my relief--nay, it had sufficed to conceal my disquiet. My looks were subdued to a seeming calm--my voice was un-broken, while I answered:-- “I have seen him within a few days, sir--a few nights ago we were at Mrs. Delaney's party. But why the question, sir?--what troubles you?” “Strange that you have not seen! Did you not remark the alteration in his appearance?” “I must confess, sir, I did not; but, perhaps, I did not remark him closely among the crowd.” “He is altered--terribly altered, Clifford. It is very strange that you have not seen it. It is visible to myself--his mother--all the family, and some of its friends We tremble for his life. He is a mere skeleton--moves without life or animation, feebly--his cheeks are pale and thin, his lips white, and his eyes have an appearance which, beyond anything besides, distresses me--either lifelessly dull, or suddenly flushed up with an expression of wildness, which occurs so suddenly as to distress us with the worst apprehensions of his sanity.” “Indeed, sir!” I exclaimed with natural surprise. “So it appears to us, his mother and myself, though, as it has escaped your eyes, I trust that we have exaggerated it. That we have not imagined all of it, however, we have other proofs to show. His manner is changed of late, and most of his habits. The change is only within the last six months; so suddenly made that it has been forced upon our sight. Once so frank, he is now reserved and shrinking to the last degree; speaks little; is reluctant to converse; and, I am compelled to believe, not only avoids my glance, but fears it.” “It is very strange that he should do so, sir. I can think of no reason why he should avoid YOUR glance. Can you sir? Have you any suspicions?” “I have.” “Ha! have you indeed?” The old man drew his chair closer to me, and, putting his hand on mine, with eyes in which the tears, big, slow-gathering, began to fill--trickling at length, one by one, through the venerable furrows of his cheeks--he replied in faltering accents:-- “A terrible suspicion, Clifford. I am afraid he drinks; that he frequents gambling-houses; that, in short, he is about to be lost to us, body and soul, for ever.”