“Salome Howland!” she managed to articulate, after a moment, during which she had fought against a deadly faintness that threatened to overcome her; “Salome! that is not a common name. What kind of a person was she? I have a—a great desire to know what she was like.” “Well, I am bound to confess that she was a very attractive-looking girl—very. She had very dark hair and eyes, a peculiarly fair, cream-like skin, delicate, beautiful features, and a very graceful form. She was, perhaps, five feet and a half in height, and in her manner and bearing she was peculiarly self-possessed and pleasing. She had beautiful teeth and small, shapely hands and feet, was well educated, and even accomplished, especially in music.” “Heavens!” murmured Mrs. Rochester, under her breath, and a shiver, as if from a sudden chill, ran over her. She rose from her chair and straightened herself, as if to throw off a certain numbness that seemed creeping over her, and moved toward the fire. “It is cold to-day,” she remarked, as she bent over the glowing coals, hoping that the ruddy flame within the grate would impart a tinge of color to her face and warm her chilled blood. “Yes, we are having an unusually severe winter for Paris,” Madame Winthrop responded, but without appearing to notice that there was anything peculiar in either the manner or appearance of her guest. “And your son, Dr. Winthrop, really loved this girl, you think?” Mrs. Rochester resumed, as she sank into a low rocker by the grate. “Yes,” replied her companion, with a frown, “it was a clear case of infatuation, though it mortifies me to confess it in connection with my son. I would not have believed that Truman could have so lost his head over any woman, much less over one surrounding whom there was so much mystery. And he does not seem to get over it, either. It is true that when he is in company he throws off his gloom for a time, but here at home he is sad and depressed—entirely unlike himself,” and she sighed heavily as she concluded. She realized that she was paying dearly for her treatment of her son’s wife and for her sinful scheming, for it was only too evident that Dr. Winthrop could not forget it; he had said he would never forgive her, and it was doubtful if he ever did. “But she is dead—you are sure she is dead?” eagerly inquired Mrs. Rochester, with a peculiar gleam in her eyes. “Oh, yes; there cannot be the slightest doubt upon that point, for we made the most searching and careful inquiries.” Mrs. Rochester soon after took her leave, but as she went out to her carriage she walked as one in a dream, and her coachman was obliged to ask her twice where she wanted to go before she heard him. “Home,” she briefly said, and all the way she sat rigid as a statue, seeing nothing, hearing nothing of what was going on about her. She found Sadie in the drawing-room arranging a profusion of flowers in some vases.