This tone of command from one who had hitherto adapted himself to her every whim, seemed to strike her. Paling quickly, she for the first time looked at him with something like a comprehension of his feelings, and quietly replied: "Forgive me. I had forgotten for the moment the extent of your claims upon me. I will wait till to-morrow before going." And she led the way back to the house. When they were alone together in the library, he turned toward her with a look whose severity was the fruit of his condition of mind rather than of any natural harshness or imperiousness. "Now, Imogene," said he, "tell me why you desire to leave my house." Her face, which had assumed a mask of cold impassiveness, confronted him like that of a statue, but her voice, when she spoke, was sufficiently gentle. "Mr. Orcutt," was her answer, "I have told you. I have a call elsewhere which must be attended to. I do not leave your house; I merely go to Buffalo for a few days." But he could not believe this short statement of her intentions. In the light of these new fears of his, this talk of Buffalo, and a call there, looked to him like the merest subterfuge. Yet her gentle tone was not without its effect, and his voice visibly softened as he said: "You are intending, then, to return?" Her reply was prefaced by a glance of amazement. "Of course," she responded at last. "Is not this my home?" Something in the way she said this carried a ray of hope to his heart. Taking her hand in his, he looked at her long and searchingly. "Imogene!" he exclaimed, "there is something serious weighing upon your heart. What is it? Will you not make me the confidant of your troubles? Tell me what has made such a change in you since--since noon, and its dreadful event." But her expression did not soften, and her manner became even more reserved than before. [Illustration: "Taking her hand in his, he looked at her long and searchingly. 'Imogene,' he exclaimed, 'there is something weighing on your heart.'"--(Page 58.)] "I have not any thing to tell," said she. "Not any thing?" he repeated. "Not any thing." Dropping her hand, he communed a moment with himself. That a secret of possible consequence lay between them he could not doubt. That it had reference to and involved the crime of the morning, he was equally sure. But how was he to make her acknowledge it? How was he to reach her mind and determine its secrets without alarming her dignity or wounding her heart?