With her brother as yet she had not communicated, but she had contrived, through Bantom--who, in his homely way, would perform any meed of service for her with the greatest cheerfulness, though he was not altogether a safe agent to employ on secret service--to ascertain that he was well, though perplexed and grieved at her mysterious absence. All this time, had she thought of Mark Wilton? Ah, yes! Not with any notion of a love-passage ever occurring between them during the vicissitudes and trials of her patiently endured life of toil, because, whenever such vision presented itself before her, she chased it away, as a mockery, a delusion, and a snare. No; she thought not of him as a lover in anticipation. She did not even think, in her heart, that he looked upon her in any other way than in a spirit of kindness--with perhaps more earnestness than men commonly look upon a pleasant female face. But she thought of him as one whom she would, of all men in the world, have soonest chosen to be her life-companion. Their stations being widely apart, she knew, or thought she knew, that an event so instinct with happiness could never, never come to pass. She would sometimes squeeze her hands together, and sigh very deeply--some would say bitterly--as she ejaculated-- “How happy I am to think we do not meet! How very happy I ought to be that I do not see him often--I should so love him. And she who wins him, how beneficent will Heaven be to her.” One evening, alone with the child, as she sat bending over it caressingly, and thinking thus, Mark Wilton stood before her. She uttered a faint cry and rose to her feet. She knew not whether to welcome him frankly, or to wait until he spoke. He recognised her embarrassment, and betrayed some confusion also, for he saw the child upon her knee. His colour went and came, and his heart heat violently. He did not look so pleasantly at her as before. “I must beg to be excused for my intrusion,” he said, in a low grave tone; “I come, however, to prepare you for a visit from your brother. Are you prepared to face him?” There was something in his tone and manner so harsh and changed from the style in which he had previously addressed her; so different, indeed, from the expression his face wore when, looking up, her eyes suddenly encountered his beaming on her, for no other word would fitly give their expression, that involuntarily she felt hurt and indignant. A reproach was implied. She felt that she had deserved no reproach--at least from him. His curtness seemed to her out of place, and if she refused to think it impertinent, she felt that it was as unjust as it appeared unkind. She turned her clear, intelligent eyes upon him, and while a roseate hue spread itself over her face, she responded to his words by the monosyllable, uttered in a tone of inquiry-- “Sir?” Again he looked at the little laughing, dark-eyed babe which she held so lovingly in her arms, and his blood seemed to freeze in his veins.