husband, pale, haughty; holding the door in his hand, and dismissing his visitor with a formal solemnity, such as I had never seen in him before. When Saville perceived me, he stood still for a moment, and made me a swaggering bow, and then advanced a step as though to address me. I bowed slightly to him, and hastened my steps to get out of his way. "Stay an instant, madam--stay an instant," he said, with a little excitement, while my husband still remained behind, looking on. I only hurried in the more quickly. "Very well," he said, with a loud exclamation--"surely, there is no reason, if you will not hear what concerns you, that I should trouble myself about you." I was strangely disturbed when, at last, I got into the quiet shelter of the drawing-room. I took refuge upon a sofa, and lay down there to recover my breath. The sight of this man, and the sound of his voice, which I almost thought I could remember in the over-excitement of my feelings, overpowered me with recollections. I remembered how we were when he came--how I was disgusted with the familiarity of his first address to me--how my father, for the moment, resisted Edgar Southcote's claims; and how I endeavored to convince him that they were true. In this room, where we had conversed together--looking at the very portrait to which I had pointed, I scarcely could persuade myself that all was real, and that this was not a dream. Flora took my bonnet from me, and loosed my mantle, and bade me be still and rest. "I am always so thoughtless. I am sure we ought not to have walked so far, cousin Hester," said the penitent Flora. "I will come down immediately, and read to you, shall I? you ought to have a good rest." But when Flora left me, I rose from the sofa to walk about the room. When I am disturbed in mind I cannot be still, unless, indeed, I am very greatly disturbed, when I can do anything. I had only been a few moments alone, when my husband came to me. I retired to my usual seat immediately, and he came to my side. He still looked as I had seen him at the door of his library--almost like my father for a time--resolute, pale, stately, a man of invincible determination, on whom words would be wasted, and whose mind no persuasions could change. A little indignation and a little scorn united in his look. I cannot describe how very different from his usual appearance he was to-day. "I have been having a visitor, Hester," he said. "I fancied you recognised him, and I think it right you should know what he had to say. He is--" "Pray, do not tell me," said I hurriedly; "I know who he is--but, indeed, I do not desire to hear his name, or anything he may have had to say." "You know who he is--did you know he was here, Hester?" said my husband, looking at me.