Mrs. Chattaway went down to the drawing-room. Two girls, the daughters of neighbours, were spending the evening there, and they were playing at proverbs with great animation: Maude Trevlyn, the guests, and the Miss Chattaways. Octave alone joined in it listlessly, as if her thoughts were far away. Her restless glances towards the door seemed to say she was watching for the entrance of one who did not come. By-and-by Mr. Chattaway came home, and they sat down to supper. Afterwards, the guests departed, and the younger children went to bed. Ten o'clock struck, and the time went on again. "Where's Rupert?" Mr. Chattaway suddenly asked his wife. "He went down to Trevlyn Farm," she said, unable, had it been to save her life, to speak without deprecation. He made no reply, but rang the bell, and ordered the household to bed. Miss Diana Trevlyn was out upon a visit. "Cris and Rupert are not in," observed Octave, as she lighted her mother's candle and her own. Mr. Chattaway took out his watch. "Twenty-five minutes past ten," he said, in his hard, impassive manner--a manner which imparted the idea that he was utterly destitute of sympathy for the whole human race. "Mr. Rupert must be quick if he intends to be admitted to-night; Give your mother her bed-candle." It may appear almost incredible that Mrs. Chattaway should meekly take her candle and follow her daughter upstairs without remonstrance, when she would have given the world to sit up longer. She was becoming quite feverish on Rupert's account, and would have wished to wait in that room until his ring was heard. But to oppose her own will to her husband's was a thing she had never yet done; in small things, as in great, she had bowed to his wishes without making the faintest shadow of resistance. Octave wished her mother good-night, went into her room, and closed the door. Mrs. Chattaway was turning into hers when she saw Maude creeping down the upper stairs. She came noiselessly along the corridor, her face pale with agitation, and her heart beating. "Oh, Aunt Edith, what will be done?" she murmured. "It is half-past ten, and he is not home." "Maude, my poor child, you can do nothing," was the whispered answer, the tone as full of pain as Maude's. "Go back to your room, dear; your uncle may come up." The great clock in the hall struck the half-hour, its sound falling as a knell. Hot tears were falling from the eyes of Maude. "What will become of him, Aunt Edith? Where will he sleep?" "Hush, Maude! Run back." It was time to run; and Mrs. Chattaway spoke the words in startled tones. The master's heavy footstep was heard crossing the hall. Maude stole back, and Mrs. Chattaway passed into her dressing-room.