it of pudding on a tray, and I’ll carry it upstairs.”

    “You’ll ?”

    “Just a morsel, and a taste of c’s all.”

    “And the sago?”

    “Never mind it at present: I seatime: I’ll make it myself.”

    turned to me, saying t Mrs. Fairfax ing for me: so I departed.

    I  of tain conflagration during dinner, so mucical cer of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering tion at tioning o custody t morning, or, at t, dismissed from er’s service.  as mucion of y last nig mysterious cause oo, to secrecy? It range: a bold, vindictive, and y gentleman seemed some of s; so muc even empt, muc.

    empted to t tenderer feelings ter in , ronly as s be admitted. “Yet,” I reflected, “semporary er’s: Mrs. Fairfax told me once, s tty; but, for augy and strengter to compensate for t of personal advantages. Mr. Rocer is an amateur of tric: Grace is eccentric at least.  if a former caprice (a freak very possible to a nature so sudden and rong as o ions a secret influence, t of ion, ,  of conjecture, Mrs. Poole’s square, flat figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my mind’s eye, t I t, “No; impossible! my supposition cannot be correct. Yet,” suggested t voice o us in our o beautiful eiter approves you: at any rate, you en felt as if  night—remember his words; remember his look; remember his voice!”

    I one seemed at t vividly rene over ed  of start.

    “Qu’ avez-vous, mademoiselle?” said ss tremblent comme la feuille, et vos joues sont