“Read a play!” exclaimed she, bitterly. “Well, go hang yourself, then!” exclaimed he, savagely, breaking from her, flinging himself out of the room, and slamming the door after him. Hagar stood where he had left her, transfixed with astonishment; this was the first occasion upon which she had ever seen him depart from the Chesterfieldian propriety of his usual self-possession. Slowly she recovered her senses; slowly left the room and sought her children. A death-like calmness settled on her pallid brow, she made no further opposition to his plans, asked no further questions of his purposes. The night before the parting came. Their trunks were all down in the piazza—the carriage was even packed with the small bundles, so that there should be as little delay as possible in the morning, as they wished to reach the village in time to meet the morning boat, which passed about the break of day. Supper was served an hour earlier, so that they might all retire to rest sooner, and be up in time. At that supper and during that evening, Hagar’s manner was quiet—quiet as death, except that from under her heavy pallid eyelids, flamed out a gloomy, baleful fire, as she would fix her eyes upon Rosalia; in her cheek came in and out a flickering fire; her bosom would heave, her teeth snap with a spring, and her hand clinch convulsively, while a spasm would convulse her form. Raymond watched her with visible anxiety, sought to catch her now murky and fiery eye; in vain—he could not control or affect her in any way. They arose from the table. “Give us one more song in this room, Rosalia, before you leave it,” said Raymond Withers, leading her to the instrument—at the touch of his hand, waves of blood bathed the girl’s bosom, neck, and face, as a fire bath, and then receding, left her ashy pale—and tottering on the verge of a swoon, she sank into the music-chair, ran her fingers feebly and mechanically over the keys, striking a faint prelude, opened her lips to sing, stopped, dropped her head upon the music, and burst into tears—then rising suddenly, left the room. Neither Raymond nor Hagar attempted to prevent her—they looked at each other. “What an evening!—my last evening at home!” “Your _last_!” “Well! my last for a week or two.” “Ah!” “What is the matter with _you_ this evening, Mistress Hagar?” “I want a ride, an opiate, or a novel!” laughed she, sardonically, then suddenly she sank into a chair, and subsided into the gloom of her former manner—an excited gloom like a smouldering fire—he watched her uneasily. “Hagar.” “Well!” “Where are your children?” “Asleep in the nursery, of course; where else should they be?” “Do you not usually see them to bed yourself at this hour?” “Yes! but to-night I put them to sleep an hour earlier, that _I_ might spend the evening—_your last evening_, Raymond, with you!” exclaimed she, sarcastically. “Hagar! there is a lurking phrensy in your look and manner that annoys me.” “Ah!” “Makes me uneasy.”