When we entered, I saw the table was spread, and it occurred to me, that at my father's table we ought to be represented, not by Edgar Southcote, nor by Mr. Osborne; and when I had taken off my mantle, I returned and took my place. I saw Mr. Osborne look at me with extreme and uncomprehending wonder. He could not understand my motive, nor what he called the rule of my conduct. He did everything very properly himself, and conformed to all the usual decorums, and he did not know how to judge me. I was aware of his wondering, and almost disapproving glance. I was aware that I ought not to have been able, on this day, to take my place here as I did; but I was not moved by knowing it; I only felt an indignant determination that neither of them two should rule at my father's board--this was his house still, and I was his heir. When the meal was over, I returned to my room; but I could no longer rest there--there was a visible void in the house--a dull ache and vacancy in my heart. I wandered about from room to room, to his bed-chamber where he died, and where he had been lying like a king in state and rest; from thence I went to the library where his chair stood by the table, where his desk and his books seemed almost to have been used to-day. There I sat down in my dull, vacant misery; the door was closed, the house was still--save for the branches waving in the evening wind across the window, there was neither sound nor motion near. I was quite alone. I sat looking at the diamond ring upon my finger, his last gift. I wondered what he meant by saying it was a misfortune. A misfortune--I had no need, yet no fear of such in my withered life. One great calamity, as I thought, had put me beyond the reach of fate. "No, no!" I repeated to myself unconsciously aloud, "fate has done its worst--I can suffer no more. I can lose no more--there is no misfortune left possible to me." As I spoke I heard some motion in the room, and starting saw Mr. Osborne rise from behind the curtain where he had been reading. In proportion to my former confidence in him, was my resentment against him now, and I became very angry when I perceived he had been watching me. "Then you have made up your mind to be miserable," he said, somewhat sharply, as he came up to me. "This is very foolish, Hester! it is worse than foolish--it is criminal, and it is weak--you forget your natural grief to nurse your wrath, and confirm yourself in a sense of injury. Where is your poor mother's miniature which I gave you for a charm to keep those evil thoughts away? It might have soothed your father's last hour, if you had not thus embittered your heart. Child! child! it is easier to make misery than to heal it--do not throw your life away." "I have no life to throw away," said I, sullenly, "it has been taken from me and all its hopes. I do not care if I should die to-morrow."