H E H E S I B . 491 CHAPTER XXXV. • Over quaint and dear old Ben Lomond, the home of Malcolm and Katherine, there hung for years, one cloud ; there moved in the household band one figure, that was a continual reminder to the husband and wife of a dark and terrible story — a tragedy, known in all its details, only to themselves. They never spoke of it, except in their most secret conferences, yet both knew that it was never forgotten, for an instant, while that pallid, woe-stricken woman sat in her arm-chair, beside the winter fire, or, in summer, in the airy colonnade overlooking the site of the Hale's cottage. She was always habited in deep black, always taciturn and un- smiling "in a melancholy," said the neighbors, and from Mrs. Holt, the only member of the family who could be induced to converse upon the one great event of her life — the burning of the Richmond theatre, they learned enough to beget in them com- passion, unmingled with wonder, for the widowed mother of Ben Lomond's mistress. The ci-devant governess was never more solemnly important than when a knot of curious listeners collected in her room, and having shut the door, begged her to recount the particulars of that direful night, that plunged hundreds of families into mourn- ing. For fifty years, save one, have the fervent tones of prayer and the sweet melody of holy song, floated through the outer court of the monumental temple, where are inurned the ashes of the noble and the brave, the lovely, and the beloved, who fell upon that
