sigh,—which gave the words an ironical sound.—"He had ceased to care for her," she said.
"Ah, madam!" cried the priest, "don't blaspheme. Go down on your knees, and thank God that we have been spared that hideous sight!"
Mystified and horrified, Margaret drew her hand from his grasp, and looked with womdering eyes at Mrs. De Grey. She smiled faintly, touched her forefinger to her forehead, tapped it, raised her eyebrows, and shook her head.
From counting the months that were to elapse before Paul's return, our friends came to counting the weeks, and then the days. The month of May arrived; Paul had sailed from England. At this time Mrs. De Grey opened her son's room, and caused it to be prepared for occupation. The contents were just as he had left them; she bade Margaret come in and see it. Margaret looked at her face in his mirror, and sat down a moment on his sofa, and examined the books on his shelves. They seemed a prodigious array; they were in several languages, and gave a deep impression of their owner's attainments. Over the chimney hung a small sketch in pencil, which Margaret made haste to inspect,—a likeness of a young girl, skilfully enough drawn. The original had apparently been very handsome, in the dark style; and in the comer of the sketch was written the artist's name,—De Grey. Margaret looked at the portrait in silence, with quickened heartbeats.
"Is this Mr. Paul's?" she asked at last of her companion.
"It belongs to Paul," said Mrs. De Grey. "He used to be very fond of it, and insisted upon hanging it there. His father sketched it before our marriage."
Margaret drew a breath of relief. "And who is the lady?" she asked.
"I hardly know. Some foreign person, I think, that Mr. De Grey had been struck with. There's something about her in the other corner."
In effect, Margaret detected on the opposite side of the sketch, written in minute character, the word "obiit, 1786."
