serious, very quiet, but there could be no doubt that the weight and oppression were partially withdrawn. The short afternoon had begun to darken, and Aunt Sophy had already asked if it were not nearly time for tea, when Dorrington, the butler, knocked at the door, and with a very solemn countenance delivered “Mr. John Trevanion’s compliments, and would Madam be so good as step into the library for a few minutes?” The few minutes were Dorrington’s addition. The look of the gentlemen seated at the table close together, like criminals awaiting execution, and fearing that every moment would bring the headsman, had alarmed Dorrington. He was favorable to his mistress on the whole; and he thought this summons meant something. So unconsciously he softened his message. A few minutes had a reassuring sound. They all looked up at him as the message was given. “They will want to consult you about something,” said Aunt Sophy; “you have managed everything for so long. He said only a few minutes. Make haste, dear, and we will wait for you for tea.” “Shall I go with you, mamma?” said Rosalind, rising and following to the door. Mrs. Trevanion hesitated for a moment. “Why should I be so foolish?” she said, with a faint smile. “I would say yes, come; but that it is too silly.” “I will come, mamma.” “No; it is absolute folly. As if I were a novice! Make your aunt comfortable, dear, and don’t let her wait for me.” She was going away when something in Rosalind’s face attracted her notice. The girl’s eyes were intent upon her with a pity and terror in them that was indescribable. Mrs. Trevanion made a step back again and kissed her. “You must not be frightened, Rosalind. There can be nothing bad enough for that; but don’t let your aunt wait,” she said; and closing the door quickly behind her, she left the peaceful protection of the women with whom she was safe, and went to meet her fate. The library was naturally a dark room, heavy with books, with solemn curtains and sad-colored furniture. The three large windows were like shaded lines of vertical light in the breadth of the gloom. On the table some candles had been lighted, and flared with a sort of wild waving when the door was opened. Lighted up by them, against the dark background, were the pale faces of John Trevanion and old Mr. Blake. Both had a look of agitation, and even alarm, as if they were afraid of her. Behind them, only half visible, was the doctor, leaning against a corner of the mantelpiece, with his face hidden by his hand. John Trevanion rose without a word, and placed a chair for his sister-in-law close to where they sat. He drew nearer to his colleague when he sat down again, as if for protection, which, however, Mr. Blake, a most respectable, unheroic person, with his countenance like ashes, and looking as if he had seen a ghost, was very little qualified to give.