Mr. Rayner had entered the room so softly that we had not heard him. “You look tired, my dearest Lola,” said he gently; “you had better go and lie down for a little while.” At the sound of her husband’s voice Mrs. Rayner had shrunk back into her usual statuesque self, like a sensitive plant touched by rough fingers--so quickly too that for a moment I almost thought, as I glanced at the placid expressionless face, that I must have imagined the look of despair and the gesture of invitation. I timidly offered to read her to sleep, but she declined at once, almost abruptly for her, and, with some conventional thanks for my trouble, took the arm her husband held out, thanked him as he carefully wrapped round her a little shawl that she generally wore, and left the room with him. After that, her reserve towards me was greater than ever; she seemed reluctant to accept the smallest service of common courtesy at my hands, and refused my offers to read to her again, under the plea that it was wasting my time, as she was hardly well enough to listen with full attention. I was hurt as well as puzzled by this; and, being too young and timid to make any further advances, the distance between me and the silent sad lady grew greater than ever. An attempt that Mr. Rayner made two days after the above scene to draw us together only sent us farther apart. He came into the schoolroom just as Haidee and I were finishing the day’s lessons, and, after a few playful questions about her studies, dismissed her into the garden. “The child is very like her mother in face; don’t you think so?” said he. “But I am afraid she will never have her mother’s strength of intellect. I see you cannot help looking surprised, Miss Christie. My wife does not give herself the airs of a clever woman. But you would not have doubted it if you had known her five years ago.” He was in one of those moods of almost embarrassing frankness, during which the only thing possible was to sit and listen quietly, with such sparing comment as would content him.