"At Guild; yes, I know; I saw her there when I went over with papa. But I was not aware that you were intimate there." Robert Hunter had never spoken of that past time in any way to Mary Anne. It happened that Anna Chester had not. "I went over to Guild sometimes. I was living at Katterley, seven miles off." "Was that in your wife's time?" "Yes." "It is strange you never told me you knew my stepmother." "It never occurred to me to tell you. Business matters have so entirely occupied my thoughts since, that those old days seem well-nigh blotted out of them." "Were she and your wife great friends?" "No. My wife did not like her." Robert Hunter was standing at the window, looking out in the nearly faded twilight. He could not fail to perceive by the tone of her voice that Mary Anne was feeling displeased at something. But her better nature was returning to her, and she went and stood by him. He held out his arm, as he had done once or twice before when they were thus standing together: and she slipped her hand within it. The fire had burnt down to dulness, emitting scarcely any light: the preventive man could no longer be seen on the plateau. "How dark it is getting, Robert!" "Yes; but I think it will be a fine night. There's a star or two twinkling out." Very, very conscious was each, as they stood there. In these silent moments, with the semi-darkness around, love, if it exists, must make itself felt. Love within, love around, love everywhere; the atmosphere teeming with it, the soul sick to trembling with its own bliss. It seemed to them that the beating of their own hearts was alone heard, and that too audibly. Thus they stood; how long it was hard to say. The room grew darker, the stars came out clearer. The softness of the hour was casting its spell on them both; never had love been so present and so powerful. In very desperation Mary Anne broke the silence, her tone sweet and low, her voice sunk to a half-whisper. "Robert, how is it you have never spoken to me of your wife?" "I did not know you would like it. And besides----" "Besides what?" "I have not cared to speak of her since her death. A feeling has been upon me that I never should speak of her again, except perhaps to one person." "And that person?" "My second wife. Should I be fortunate enough ever to marry one." He turned involuntarily and looked at her. And then looked away again hastily. It might be dangerous just now. But that look, brief as it was, had shown him her glowing, downcast countenance. "What was her name?" "Clara. She was little more than a child--a gentle, loving child, unfit to encounter the blasts of the world. One, ruder than ordinary, struck her and carried her away." "Did you love her very much?" He paused, hesitated, and then turned to her again. "Am I to tell you, Mary Anne?" "As you like," she whispered, the blushes deepening. "Of course not, if it be painful to you."