"A rich widow, whose son is lord of the manor of Discombe, one of the most important places between here and Salisbury." "And she believes in spiritualism. Curious in a lady living in the country. I thought that kind of thing had died out with Home, and the famous article in the _Cornhill Magazine_." "We have had later prophets. Eglinton, for instance, with his materializations and his slate-writing. I don't think the spiritualistic idea is dead yet, in spite of the ridicule which the outside herd has cast upon it." "I hope the widow lady is not beguiling you into sharing her delusions, Allan." The son had seen a look in the father's face which spoke to him as plainly as any spoken words. That look had told him that his description of Mrs. Wornock conjured up some thrilling image in his father's mind. He saw that startled wondering look come and go, slowly fading out of the pensive face, as the mind dismissed the thought which Allan's words had awakened. Surely it was not a guilty look which had troubled his father's mild countenance--rather a look of awakened interest, of eager questioning. "I should hate to see Allan taking up any nonsense of that kind," said Lady Emily, with her practical air; "but really, if this Mrs. Wornock were not twenty years older than he, I should suspect him of being in love with her. She is a pretty, delicate-looking woman, with a shy, girlish manner, and looks ridiculously young to be the mother of a grown-up son." "Oh, she has a grown-up son, has she?" asked Mr. Carew. "She belongs to this part of the country, I suppose, and is a woman of good family?" He looked at his son; but, for some reason of his own, Allan parried the question. "I know hardly anything about her, except that she is a very fine musician, and that she has been particularly kind to me," he said. "There, George," cried Lady Emily. "Didn't I tell you so? The foolish boy is half in love with her!" "You will not say that after to-morrow, mother." "Shall I not? But why?" "You will lose all interest in to-morrow, if I tell you. Go on wondering, mother dear, till to-morrow, and to-morrow I will tell you a secret; but, remember, it is not to be talked about to any one in Matcham." "Should I talk of a secret, Allan?" "I don't know. I have an idea that secrets are the staple of tea-table talk in a village." "Poor village! for how much it has to bear the blame; and yet people are worse gossips in Mayfair and Belgravia." "Only because they have more to talk about." * * * * *