A week after, Mr. Pouncet's confidential clerk returned to Kenlisle. He was restless, and deadly pale, and went to his desk to look for letters with a horrible anxiety. There were no letters there; and he turned out again with a breathless flutter of excitement to see his principal, and speak as he best could about business. But neither Mr. Pouncet nor any other person had heard anything from Marchmain, and Horace went out again in a miserable fever, which all his efforts could not quite conceal. He had laid the train; but heaven knows how long it might smoulder before the spark was set to that thread of death! CHAPTER XV. WHILE these dark elements of tragedy were gathering about the lonely house of Marchmain, things went on very cheerfully in Milnehill, where everybody was vaguely encouraged by the idea of the investigation going on which might restore some wreck of fortune to the young Rifleman; and where a still more engrossing pursuit reconciled that hero himself to the necessity of waiting for news of this possible enrichment. Roger, who had no great hopes on the subject, bore the suspense with the greatest patience, and never, indeed, showed the least signs of anxiety, except when it seemed likely that a word or two of lamentation over his fate would call forth the compassion of the ladies--which compassion was very sincere on Susan's part, and good-humouredly satirical on that of Mrs. Melrose. "It's easy to see the poor young man's losing heart altogether with this waiting," the old lady would say with much gravity; "for you see, Susan, my dear, it's not to be expected that he can find anything here to amuse him, poor man, seeing nothing but two old people and a quiet little girl like you." Mrs. Melrose had quite taken up her abode at Milnehill since Roger's arrival. She said it was good for her health to smell the chestnut blossoms, and overlook Uncle Edward's gardening--and a very cheerful and lively addition she made to the happy house. One morning, however, the quiet progress of affairs was interrupted by a letter, which Roger read not without a little agitation at the breakfast-table. When he had come to the end he handed it over suddenly, with a slight impetuous impulse, to the Colonel, who took it with his usual kind look of serious attention, put on his spectacles immediately, and addressed himself to the perusal of the letter with much gravity and earnestness. It was from Roger's mother, and written partly under the inspiration of little Edmund, messages from whom were mixed with everything the timid woman said--