Mrs. Chester, shaking the threads from her black gown, left the room, Fanny went with her, and Miss Cooper followed. Tea was a thankful boon to the weary, hard-worked dressmaker. Anna never quitted her work until the last minute, and sat on, drawing one of the candles a little nearer to her. Robert Lake began speaking to his wife of the progress of their house; or rather, the non-progress. Clara--the one dreadful certainty giving rise to other suspicions--wondered whether he had bribed the men to retard it. He had not done that, however; he was not one to commit wrong deliberately. "Seriously speaking, Clara, I do think we shall not get back before Christmas." She had determined upon saying something; what, she hardly knew. But when she tried to speak, the violent agitation that the effort brought, impeded all utterance. And perhaps the presence of Anna Chester acted as a restraint. She glanced up at him and opened her lips; but no words came; her throat was beating, her breath troubled. "Clara! you have turned quite white. Are you ill?" "I--I feel cold," was all she could say. "It is a cold, nasty night," remarked Mr. Lake, giving no further thought to the matter, or supposing that there was cause to give it. "The tea is ready, I think; that will warm you." He took one of the candles off the table and went to his room to wash his hands. Anna Chester laid down her work and approached Clara. "Dear Mrs. Lake, something is troubling you," she said in her gentle manner, as her sweet eyes glanced deprecatingly at that care-betraying face. "Can I do anything for you--or get you anything? Shall I bring you some tea up here?" "Hush, Anna! No, it is nothing--only that I am cold. Thank you all the same." "You are looking so pale. Pale and sad." "I don't think I have been very well lately, Anna. Let me be quiet, my dear, for a few minutes, will you? my head aches." Anna Chester, with the delicacy innate in her, quitted the room, setting things a little straight on the work-table in passing it. When Mr. Lake came back, Clara was sitting just as he had left her. Putting down the candle, he came close up, making some trifling remark. She would have given the world to be able to say a word to him; to ask whether she was to be _second_ in his heart; second to that woman; but she simply dared not. Her agitation would have become unbearable, and ended in an hysterical scene. "Are you not coming to tea, Clara?" "Presently." He looked at her with a keen eye. She was odd, he thought. "What's the matter, Clara? You seem dull this evening." There was no answer. Mrs. Lake had her hand pressed upon her throat and chest, striving, though he knew it not, to still the agitation that all but burst its bounds. "Where is the book?" she presently asked. "What book?" "The one you were to bring for me; that you forgot last time." "Oh, to be sure; here it is," he said, taking it from his coat pocket. "I did not forget it this time, you see."