“He never knew them, madam,” said Hartley; “there was a mystery on the score of his birth. A cold, unwilling, and almost unknown hand, dealt him out his portion when he came of lawful age, and he was pushed into the world like a bark forced from shore, without rudder, compass, or pilot.” Here General Witherington involuntarily looked to his lady, while, guided by a similar impulse, her looks were turned upon him. They exchanged a momentary glance of deep and peculiar meaning, and then the eyes of both were fixed on the ground. “Were you brought up in Scotland?” said the lady, addressing herself, in a faltering voice, to Hartley--“And what was your master's name?” “I served my apprenticeship with Mr. Gideon Gray of the town of Middlemas,” said Hartley. “Middlemas! Gray?” repeated the lady, and fainted away. Hartley offered the succours of his profession; the husband flew to support her head, and the instant that Mrs. Witherington began to recover, he whispered to her, in a tone betwixt entreaty and warning, “Zilia, beware--beware!” Some imperfect sounds which she had begun to frame, died away upon her tongue. “Let me assist you to your dressing-room, my love,” said her obviously anxious husband. She arose with the action of an automaton, which moves at a touch of a spring, and half hanging upon her husband, half dragging herself on by her own efforts, had nearly reached the door of the room, when Hartley following, asked if he could be of any service. “No, sir,” said the General, sternly; “this is no case for a stranger's interference; when you are wanted I will send for you.” Hartley stepped back on receiving a rebuff in a tone so different from that which General Witherington had used towards him in their previous intercourse, and felt disposed for the first time, to give credit to public report, which assigned to that gentleman, with several good qualities, the character of a very proud and haughty man. Hitherto, he thought, I have seen him tamed by sorrow and anxiety, now the mind is regaining its natural tension. But he must in decency interest himself for this unhappy Middlemas. The General returned into the apartment a minute or two afterwards, and addressed Hartley in his usual tone of politeness, though apparently still under great embarrassment, which he in vain endeavoured to conceal. “Mrs. Witherington is better,” he said, “and will be glad to see you before dinner. You dine with us, I hope?” Hartley bowed.