Could she throw herself upon the sympathies of these? Who were they? Might they not be in league with Wiggins for some purpose unknown to her? It was curious that these strangers were able to pass the gates which were shut to all the rest of the world. These were her thoughts, and she determined to find out from these Mowbrays, if possible, how it was that they got in. “Had you any difficulty at the gates with the porter?” asked Edith. “Oh no,” said Captain Mowbray, “not the least.” “Did he offer no resistance?” “Certainly not. Why should he?” “Because he has been in the habit of turning back all visitors.” “Ah,” said Mowbray, listlessly, “that is a thing you ought not to allow.” “I was afraid,” said Edith, “that he had tried to keep you back.” “Me?” said Mowbray, with strong emphasis. “He knows better than that, I fancy.” “And yet he is capable of any amount of insolence.” “Indeed?” said Mowbray, languidly. “Then why don't you turn him off, and get a civil man?” “Because--because,” said Edith, in a tremulous voice, “there is one here who--who countermands all my orders.” “Ah!” said Mowbray, in a listless tone, which seemed to say that he took no interest whatever in these matters. “Dear me!” said Mrs. Mowbray, in a querulous voice. “Servants are such dreadful plagues. Worry! why, it's nothing else but worry! And they're so shockingly impertinent. They really have no sense of respect. I don't know for my part what the world's coming to. I suppose it's all these dreadful radicals and newspapers and working-men's clubs and things. When I was young it was not so.” “You have not been in Dalton Hall since you were a young girl, Miss Dalton?” said Mowbray, inquiringly. “No; not for ten years.” “Do you find it much changed?” “Very much--and for the worse. I have had great difficulties to contend with.” “Indeed?” said Mowbray, indifferently. “Well, at any rate, you have a noble old place, with every thing around you to make you enjoy life.” “Yes--all but one thing.” “Ah?” “I am a prisoner here, Captain Mowbray,” said Edith, with an appealing glance and a mournful tone. “Ah, really?” said Mowbray; and taking up a book he began to turn over the leaves in a careless way. “A prisoner?” put in Mrs. Mowbray. “Yes, and so you are. It's like imprisonment, this dreadful mourning. But one has to act in accordance with public sentiment. And I suppose you grieve very much, my dear, for your poor dear papa. Poor man! I remember seeing him once in London. It was my first season. There were Lord Rutland and the Marquis of Abercorn and the young Duke of Severn--all the rage. Do you know, my dear, I was quite a belle then.”