The afternoon had grown dark, and a gray twilight filled the great windows. Nothing but the warm glow of the fire made any light in the large and luxurious room. It was so full of the comforts and brightness of life--the red light twinkling in the pretty pieces of old silver and curiosities upon the tables, catching in ruddy reflection the picture-frames and mirror, warming and softening the atmosphere which was so sheltered and still; and yet in no monastic cell or prison had there ever been a prostrate figure more like despair. The first thing that roused her was a soft, caressing touch upon her shoulder; she raised her head to see Emmy, her delicate sixteen-year-old girl, bending over her. ‘Mamma, mamma, is anything the matter?’ said Emmy. ‘I was very tired and chilly; I did not hear you come in, Emmy.’ ‘I met Mrs. Bircham on the stairs; she was laughing all to herself, but when she saw me she began to cry, and said, “Poor Emmy! poor little girl! You’ll feel it.” But she would not tell me what it was. And then I find you, mamma, looking miserable.’ ‘Am I looking miserable? You can’t see me, my darling,’ said her mother with a faint laugh. She added, after a pause: ‘Mrs. Bircham has got a new story against one of her neighbours. Don’t let us pay any attention, Emmy; I never do, you know.’ ‘No, mamma,’ said Emmy, with a quaver in her voice. She was very quiet and said very little, but in her half-invalid condition she could not help observing a great many things that eluded other people, and many alarms and doubts and suppressed suspicions were in her mind which she could not and would not have put in words. There was something in the semi-darkness and in the abandon in which she had found her mother which encouraged Emmy. She clasped Mrs. Blencarrow’s arm in both of hers, and put her face against her mother’s dress. ‘Oh, mamma,’ she said, ‘if you are troubled about anything, won’t you tell me? Oh, mamma, tell me! I should be less unhappy if I knew.’ ‘Are you unhappy, Emmy?--about me?’ ‘Oh! I did not mean quite that; but you are unhappy sometimes, and how can I help seeing it? I know your every look, and what you mean when you put your hands together--like that, mamma.’ ‘Do you, Emmy?’ The mother took her child into her arms with a strong pressure, as if Emmy’s feeble innocence pressed against her own strong, struggling bosom did her good. The girl felt the quiver in her mother’s arm, which enfolded her, and felt the heavy beating of the heart against which she was pressed, with awe and painful sympathy, but without suspicion. She knew everything without knowing anything in her boundless sympathy and love. But just then the clock upon the mantelpiece tingled out its silvery chime. Five o’clock! Mrs. Blencarrow put Emmy out of her arms with a sudden start. ‘I did not think it was so late. I have to see some one downstairs at five o’clock.’ ‘Oh, mamma, wait for some tea; it is just coming.’