“I hoped that the depression into which she sank would wear off; but, instead, it only grew deeper. I have told you before that by an arrangement on our marriage our settled home was in the country; after her boy’s death, my wife would never even visit town again. When Mona was born, just before we came to this place, a change came, but not the change I had expected. I had hoped she would reawaken to interest in life, and perhaps, if the child had been a boy to replace the one she had lost, it would have been so. Instead of that, her apathy deepened, until now, as you see, she shuts herself from all the world and raises a barrier between herself and the life around her which to strangers is often insurmountable. I have been looking for an opportunity to tell you this, Miss Christie, as I was afraid you might have been puzzled, and perhaps offended, by her strange manner the other day when you were reading to her. When I came in, I thought you looked rather frightened, and I supposed that something you had read had recalled the grief which is always slumbering at her heart, and perhaps led to one of those outbreaks which sometimes cause me the gravest, the very gravest anxiety.” I understood what he meant; but I would not allow myself to appear alarmed by the suggestion. Mr. Rayner went on-- “I fancied I caught sight of a wild look in her eyes, which is sometimes called up in them by a reference to the past, or even by a sudden vivid flash of memory. At such times only I, with the power of my long-tried affection, can calm her instantly. Do not imagine that she would ever be violent, but she might be incoherent enough to frighten you. Tell me, had she said anything that day before I came in which alarmed or puzzled you?” “No, Mr. Rayner; she scarcely spoke while I read to her.” “Was there anything in what you were reading likely to call up memories of the dreadful time to which I have alluded?” “I think not. No--none.”