only see that she comes. To the reception room," he added, as the man drew off.
No sooner were we left alone than I made a move to return to Mary, but he stopped me.
"Come and see it out," he whispered. "She will be down in a moment; see it out; you had best."
Glancing back, I hesitated; but the prospect of beholding Eleanore again drew me, in spite of myself. Telling him to wait, I returned to Mary’s side to make my excuses.
"What is the matter—what has occurred?" she breathlessly asked.
"Nothing as yet to disturb you much. Do not be alarmed." But my face betrayed me.
"There is something!" said she.
"Your cousin is coming down."
"Down here?" and she shrank visibly.
"No, to the reception room."
"I do not understand. It is all dreadful; and no one tells me anything."
"I pray God there may be nothing to tell. Judging from your present faith in your cousin, there will not be. Take comfort, then, and be assured I will inform you if anything occurs which you ought to know."
Giving her a look of encouragement, I left her crushed against the crimson pillows of the sofa on which she sat, and rejoined Mr. Gryce. We had scarcely entered the reception room when Eleanore Leavenworth came in.
More languid than she was an hour before, but haughty still, she slowly advanced, and, meeting my eye, gently bent her head.
"I have been summoned here," said she, directing herself exclusively to Mr. Gryce, "by an individual whom I take to be in your employ. If so, may I
