probably felt more interest in his movements than any other persons on earth. The dialogue we are about to relate took place in Anna’s own room, the morning of the day which preceded that of the wedding, and followed naturally enough, as the sequence of certain remarks which had been made on the approaching event. “If _my_ mother were living, and _must_ be married,” said Sarah Wilmeter, “I should be very well content to have _such_ a man as Dr. McBrain for a step-father. I have known him all my life, and he is, and ever has been, so intimate with uncle Tom, that I almost think him a near relation.” “And I have known him as long as I can remember,” Anna steadily rejoined, “and have not only a great respect, but a warm regard for him. Should I ever marry myself, I do not believe I shall have one-half the attachment for my father-in-law as I am sure I shall feel for my step-father.” “How do you know there will be any father-in-law in the case? I am sure John has no parent.” “John!” returned Anna, faintly—“What is John to me?” “Thank you, my dear—he is something, at least, to _me_.” “To be sure—a brother naturally is—but Jack is no brother of mine, you will please to remember.” Sarah cast a quick, inquiring look at her friend; but the eyes of Anna were thrown downward on the carpet, while the bloom on her cheek spread to her temples. Her friend saw that, in truth, Jack was no _brother of hers_. “What I mean is this”—continued Sarah, following a thread that ran through her own mind, rather than anything that had been already expressed—“Jack is making himself a very silly fellow just now.” Anna now raised her eyes; her lip quivered a little, and the bloom deserted even her cheek. Still, she made no reply. Women can listen acutely at such moments; but it commonly exceeds their powers to speak. The friends understood each other, as Sarah well knew, and she continued her remarks precisely as if the other had answered them. “Michael Millington brings strange accounts of Jack’s behaviour at Biberry! He says that he seems to do nothing, think of nothing, talk of nothing, but of the hardship of this Mary Monson’s case.” “I’m sure it is cruel enough to awaken the pity of a rock,” said Anna Updyke, in a low tone; “a woman, and she a lady, accused of such terrible crimes—murder and arson!” “What is arson, child?—and how do _you_ know anything about it?” Again Anna coloured, her feelings being all sensitiveness on this subject; which had caused her far more pain than she had experienced from any other event in her brief life. It was, however, necessary to answer. “Arson is setting fire to an inhabited house,” she said, after a moment’s reflection; “and I know it from having been told its signification by Mr. Dunscomb.” “Did uncle Tom say anything of this Mary Monson, and of Jack’s singular behaviour?”