Poor Mrs. Dorriman! She was so little certain of being happy under her brother's roof, that it was very terrible to her to put herself in a position from which she could not retreat at will. She was a woman who had never in all her life had a confidante or a friend from whom she could take counsel, being one of those rare characters who literally cannot speak to any one of the things nearest her. In her childhood and her youth she had been isolated and had had no companions, and between her and her husband there had never been full confidence; thoughts so entirely kept to oneself are apt to become bitter and one-sided; nothing is perhaps more unwholesome than allowing no light from the outside world to brighten those darker thoughts which come at times to every one, and which a frank and open discussion with a friend will often chase away; but if this is perilous in ordinary cases it is far worse when a thought lies in the heart with so terrible a portent that it acts as a drop of deadly poison, and that only the knowledge of its power keeps it from being brought out and looked at in all its bearings. The sea-breeze ruffled Mrs. Dorriman's hair. She was not much over thirty, and after her mourning was over, had worn no cap. She had much that was comely in her countenance and person, but her large and rather light grey eyes had a habit of looking down as though something might be read in them she wished to conceal, and her face had lost its bloom. She moved well, but with the slow step of one who has never known robust health, and to whom repose is more acceptable than activity. Long she sat there thinking, one idea running through all her thoughts--What was the use of any reflection? Her brother, Mr. Sandford, twenty years her senior, had always been the master of her fate, and always would be. She was to all intents and purposes powerless, unless.... She clasped her hands together, and the colour rose for a moment in her pale cheeks. Slowly a resolution formed itself in her mind. With a step in which no hurry appeared, but with her mind strung up, she went up the path to her house. It seemed very fair to her now she was to leave it--as things become more desirable to us all as they recede from our grasp--and she stopped for a moment to look at it. The grey roughhewn stones were partly concealed by various creepers; roses and honeysuckle overhung the porch, and the garden with its well-kept lawn still showed a perfect feast of colour to the eye. Mrs. Dorriman sighed, and, going into the house, she wrote a note, and rang for her servant. She was still a little flushed, but she sent her note, and taking up her work she sat down and went on with it mechanically. No one seeing her could have imagined that she had for the first time in all her life begun to set in motion an act of rebellion.