“It is the most pleasant time for walking if people only knew.” “Did mamma go to see Paul? and oh, where is he? will not he come?” said Alice. The tears got into her voice. Had things gone so far that he would refuse to come? “I don’t think she has seen Markham,” said young Fairfax. Lady Markham had brought him in with her that she might not be obliged all at once to explain where she had been. The same reason made her spend a longer time than was necessary in taking off her hat and putting on the matronly cap with which she covered her beautiful hair. She thought with the simple subtlety of an innocent woman that the conversation would be in full course when she made her appearance and any confusion on her own part be concealed. When she came in her manners were of the conciliatory and effusive kind which is common to all culprits desirous of avoiding explanations of equivocal conduct. “I met Mr. Fairfax when I went out, and I met him again coming back,” she said, “and he owned he had not breakfasted. I hope you are giving him something to eat, Alice.” Alice looked up anxiously in her mother’s eyes. Where was Paul? that look inquired, but the glance with which Lady Markham replied conveyed no information. She shrank from her child’s look, and sitting down began to talk almost volubly. “I went further than I meant to go; the morning was so lovely and everything so still. Is it usually so still, so vacant, in summer, Mr. Fairfax? In the country we are used to it--but to see a place usually so full of young life in this state of quiet is strange. I met--scarcely any one,” said Lady Markham. “William, you will have some more tea?” Sir William did not make any answer. The letter which he had been holding up dropped, or rather the hand which had held it dropped upon his knee; and he was leaning back in his chair, Lady Markham could see with the corner of her eye--but she did not look at him, not wishing to risk the encounter. “I thought I should be back before you were ready,” she said. “We are all early this morning. I suppose it is because an inn is so unlike home. William--Oh!” She rose to her feet in sudden alarm. “Are you ill? What is the matter?” He was leaning back in his chair, his head drooping against it, his face very pale, his mouth open and his breath labouring and painful, but he had not lost command of himself. When his wife rushed to him he tried to smile. “Feeling--faint,” he said, feebly. It was a weakness to which he had been subject before. While they hurried to get wine, eau-de-Cologne, all the usual restoratives, he, still keeping up a vestige of a smile, did his best to fold up the letter he was holding, and groped about for the envelope.