She paused, as the sound of approaching footsteps were audible in the corridor, and rose hastily as an impatient, "Violet, where are you, my dear?" was distinctly audible. "That is Mr. Morton; will you excuse me a moment?" And the next moment I could hear her say, "I was in the blue drawing-room, Alick. I have sent off the letters, and now I want to speak to you a moment," and her voice died away as they moved farther down the corridor. I felt a keen anxiety as to the result of that conversation. I was very impulsive by nature, and I had fallen in love with Mrs. Morton. The worn look on the beautiful young face had touched me somehow. One of my queer visionary ideas came over me as I recalled her expression. I thought that if I were an artist, and that my subject was the "Massacre of the Innocents," that the mother's face in the foreground should be Mrs. Morton's. "Rachel Weeping for her Children;" something of the pathetic maternal agony, as for a lost babe, had seemed to cross her face as she spoke of her little ones. I found out afterwards that, though she wore no mourning, Mrs. Morton had lost a beautiful infant about four months ago. It had not been more than six weeks old, but the mother's heart was still bleeding. Many months afterwards she told me that she often dreamed of her little Muriel--she had only been baptised the day before her death--and woke trying to stifle her sobs that she might not disturb her husband. I sat cogitating this imaginary picture of mine, and shuddering over the sanguinary details, until Mrs. Morton returned, and, to my embarrassment, her husband was with her. I gave him a frightened glance as he crossed the room with rapid footsteps. He was a quiet-looking man, with a dark moustache, some years older than his wife. His being slightly bald added somewhat to his appearance of age. In reality he was not more than five and thirty. I thought him a little cool and critical in manner, but his voice was pleasant. He looked at me keenly as he spoke; it was my opinion at that moment that not an article of my dress escaped his observation. I had selected purposely a pair of mended gloves, and I am convinced the finger ends were at once under his inspection. He was a man who thought no details beneath him, but would bring his masculine intellect even to the point of discovering the fitness of his children's nurse.