"And where did we live then, uncle?" asked Susan. Horace did not say a word; he did not look at his uncle, but preserved such a total stillness from all motion, almost from breath, that a suspicious observer must have been alarmed by it. He was listening not for words only, but for tones, inflections--all those unconscious betrayals by which people, who do not suppose themselves watched, naturally disclose a certain amount of feeling with the facts they tell. But Uncle Edward did not hear--he stooped over towards his niece, and put his hand to his ear. Then he laughed, and patted her hand upon the table. "Nowhere, so far as I am aware," said the Colonel; "there was no word of you, in those days, for all such important grown-up people as you are. My sister was little more than a bride; a gay young wife, full of spirits, pretty, much sought after, and loved everywhere. We were a large family, you know, and had been accustomed to a good deal of society at home. She was a happy young creature, and did not deny herself natural pleasures. Poor Mary!--it did not last very long!" "Why did it not last very long, uncle?" cried Susan. "Did you say it never lasts very long, my dear?" said Colonel Sutherland, who _perhaps_ did not hear exactly what she said. "That is a very wise observation for you, Susan; and it is quite true to be sure, for when one begins to have a family, you know, one prefers happiness to pleasure--so that, after all, what the wiseacres say about the change from youth to sober age is true; and it isn't true like most things in this world, for it is by no means a melancholy change. When I came back fifteen years ago there was a great difference. I think she must have been ill of her last illness then, though we did not know of it. She had lost her pleasant spirits, and her pretty colour, and was anxious and desponding, as sick people grow. That made all the house melancholy. I daresay Peggy has told you as much as that." "Oh! Uncle," said Susan, "when Peggy has told me there has always seemed to be something which she did not tell me. I always fancy something dreadful had just happened--some misfortune, or something wrong, or--I cannot tell what--but she never would say any more. Did mamma break her heart?" The colour rose in Colonel Sutherland's cheek in spite of himself. Horace watching him, though he never looked at him, and though at this present moment he seemed intent on balancing a fork upon his finger, to the exclusion of all other concerns, found, or fancied he found, a certain irrepressible resentment mingled with his reluctance to answer. The Colonel spoke shortly, and with an embarrassed tone:--