His tone was frigid. Alice felt it painfully. She stood there before him in the blaze of light, all too conscious of her shabby dress, her subdued manner, all her other disadvantages. Not far off sat a young lady in rich white silk and lace, diamond bracelets gleaming on her arms. Times had indeed changed! "Are any of your family here to-night, Miss Raynor? I do not see them." "No; oh no;--I am only the governess here," replied poor Alice, making the confession in bitter pain. And he might hear it in her voice. "Oh--the governess," he assented, quite unmoved. "I hope Mrs. Raynor is well." "Not very well, thank you." Mr. Stane moved away. She saw him several times after that in different parts of the room; but he did not come near her again. And that, the first night that Alice spent at her new home, was passed in the same cruel pain, her pillow wet with tears. Pain, not so much for the life of ease she had once enjoyed, the one of labour she had entered upon, not so much in regret for the changed position she held in the world, as for the loss of the love of William Stane. CHAPTER V. THE MISSING DESK. But there is something yet to relate of the afternoon. It was about five o'clock when Edina reached home. Very much to her astonishment she saw a gentleman seated by Mrs. Raynor. The tea-things were on the table. Bobby sat on the floor. Kate stood, her back to the window, gazing with some awe at the visitor--so unusual an event in the retired household. He was a scanty-haired little gentleman, with cold, light eyes, and a trim, neat dress. Edina knew him at once, and held out her hand. It was Street, the banker. It was evident that he had come in only a minute before her, for he had not yet entered upon his business. He began upon it now. Edina silently took off her things as she listened, put them on the side-table, and made the tea. There he sat, talking methodically, and appearing to notice nothing, but in reality seeing everything: the shabby room, the scanty attire of the young children, the faded appearance of Mrs. Raynor, as she sat putting fresh cuffs on a jacket of Alfred's. Edina began to pour out the tea, and brought him a cup, handing him the sugar and milk. "Is it cream?" asked Mr. Street. "I can't take cream." "It is skim-milk," said Edina. "But it is good: not at all watered. We buy it at a small farmhouse." He had come to ask Mrs. Raynor whether she remembered a small ebony desk that had been at Eagles' Nest. It had belonged to the late Mrs. Atkinson, he observed: "she kept papers in it: receipts and things of that sort." "I remember it quite well," replied Mrs. Raynor. "My husband took it into use, and kept papers of his own in it. He used to put all the bills there." "Do you know what became of the desk, madam?" "It was left in the house," said Mrs. Raynor.