"He is gone to London on business, ma'am; but he will be back to-morrow, I hope."
"Show me to her room—no, stay, I will go alone."
She passed him, and ran quickly up-stairs, and stopped at the door she well knew, and tapped gently.
A moment's pause succeeded, and then a slow and reluctant permission to enter was given; and she opened the door, and paused, for an instant, on its threshold.
In the lonely and darkly hung chamber, which was mostly ornamented by heavy bookcases and frowning pictures, sat the once happy wife. Her white hand, as it rested on the volume, which, with many others, lay before her, was thin and attenuated, and though there was not a trace of tears on her cheek, or in the dark beauty of her eye, yet that cheek was pale and sunken, and the eye was hollow and heavy, while the heavy tresses of her raven hair seemed to oppress the head, which she was resting on her other hand, as she read.
When Lucy appeared, she raised her head, glanced at her, for an instant, and then resumed her reading.
"Do not turn away from me," said Lucy, advancing, "nay, you dare not, for you have used me ill. It is I, not you, who should be angry."
Millie looked at her in haughty surprise; but the speech had had its effect—she was roused.
"I injure you," she said, contemptuously, "I may have suffered the moth to take its wanton flight after one attempt to warn it; but I certainly did not hold the fire to its wings."
"But if you would not stretch out your hand to save that moth when you could, you have done wrong. You are infinitely more clever than I am; but a child knows right from wrong—and I tell you that you were wrong—yes, very, very wrong."