"And I was not to know it?" I had heard that tone of voice, surely, somewhere else in life. Where could it have been? I thought of my tower, and of that dress in there. Was never to come chance of seeing it? It seemed quite probable, for the lady asked to have the doors opened through. "Through where?" I asked. "All of them," she said. I opened the two into the dressing-room; there was still another out of that. Uncertain if she might mean it as well, I went back to ask. "Yes," she said; and I opened it. The first object that met my sight was the painting--the young girl's face--that had been in the library. The hair was covered, as if one had been trying effects of light and shade. I saw this instantly, and turned away. "I would like you to raise the shades in there," Miss Axtell said. "I like the light that comes in through the distance, the afternoon light; how much it sees upon the earth!" Going in again, I drew up one, put the drapery of the curtains back, and laid my hand upon the second, when the door from the hall opened, admitting the owner of the place. Mr. Axtell did not look window-ward. He did not see me. A stillness of thought and being crept over me. I stood, with fingers clasped about the curtain-cord, enduring conscious paralysis. And he? He laid his overcoat across one chair; next to it was the one on which the portrait of the young girl had been placed. In front of it Mr. Axtell kneeled down, buried his face in his hands, and remained motionless. A second tower I was imprisoned in, higher up than the first,--a well, deep with veins of liquid soul, such as man nor patriarch hath ever builded, and I, a bit of rock-moss, unable to reach out to the light. I heard Miss Axtell's voice, and yet I could not move. She called, "Miss Percival!"--Mr. Axtell did not lift his head; she called, "Abraham!"--then I moved. With a slow swiftness of silence I passed by the kneeling figure, and should have gained the door, had not Mr. Axtell risen up. His eyes were, for the second time, upon me. A dark, thunderous look of anger clouded his face. I stood still and looked at him. If he had evinced emotion at my presence in any other mode, I could not have met his look. "Your sister wished me to raise the shades in here," I said; "she likes western light." "Why not do it, then?"--the anger rolling sombrous as at the first,--he asked. I looked back. Noticing that only one of the shades was lifted,-- "I will leave it for you to do," I said; and with one involuntary glance at the young, life-young face, painted there, I went. "I thought I heard Abraham's footsteps in the hall," said Miss Axtell, when I entered the room. "You did," I replied. "He is come in." The second time the sister called, "Abraham!" "Yes, Lettie," he answered; but he did not come. "What is the matter, Abraham?" she asked. "Why do you not come?" "I'm coming, Lettie."