It is night, and Dan is sitting alone in his bedroom. An unopened book is before him: it is the book that Susan gave him by Basil Kindred's desire. He has not read a line in it. Between him and Ellen it has been tacitly agreed that whatever is written in it shall be read, by them, and by them alone, at night. Another book is also before him: it is a Bible, and it is open. Dan is waiting for Ellen. The grief that reigns in the house, and in that of Mrs. Marvel, cannot be written here. It is too deep, too overwhelming for expression. Mrs. Marvel is in the house now. All that she knows is that Basil Kindred is dead, and that Minnie is gone: she has no knowledge of the terrible suspicion that hangs like a deadly cloud over the good name of her beloved son. But the news of the death and the flight: they could not be concealed, although no one is aware how they became known: has gone forth into the neighborhood; and little knots of the neighbors have hung about the house all the evening and night, discussing the strange events. Even now, notwithstanding that it is near midnight, a dozen street-doors are open, each with its assemblage of gossippers, chiefly feminine, prattling, not at all sorrowfully, about the wonderful news. There is much head-shaking and raising of hands; but whatever may be the meaning of this play of heads and hands, it certainly does not express grief. The neighborhood is rather bare of historical events; and those that have just occurred are godsends. Given to the neighbors round about the merit of all the kindliness of heart they deserve, they really enjoy their gossip, and show their enjoyment of it. A stranger walking through the street might have reasonably supposed that the dwellers therein had been making general holiday. Dan's face is very pale as he sits, with no sign of impatience upon him, expectant of Ellen's coming. The door opens and Mrs. Marvel enters. She draws down the blind--the moonlight has been streaming in upon his face, giving it a more painful pallor than that which rests on it when the moon is shut out--and sits down by his side in silence for a while. She draws his head upon her breast, and kisses him; his arm steals round her neck, and he sheds tears, and kisses her in return; but few words pass between them. "Susan?" he asks. "She is in bed, my dear," she answers. "Has she said any thing?" he asks anxiously. "She has not spoken, my dear." He gives a soft sigh of relief. She knows that he is waiting for Ellen, and she will not linger. She kisses him again in her motherly way, and bids him goodnight; and soon after Ellen enters the room.