Over the going out of that sweet light
In which we had our being.’”
“What a wonderful memory you have, Mr. Aggland,” said his visitor, with a simper; and then she drove down the avenue, and called at half-a-dozen houses, and whispered in each of them—“I do think there must be some little insanity in Mrs. Stondon’s family. That uncle of hers is as eccentric and odd as possible. His brain seems to me a perfect library, or rather a book filled with familiar quotations.”
“It did not strike me that they were familiar at all,” said Mr. Ralph Chichelee; “quite the contrary, indeed.”
“And, besides,” put in Mrs. Enmoor, who had rather an affection for Phemie, “he is not her uncle by blood, only by marriage.”
“But it is so strange the way she goes on,” persisted the first speaker; “she sees no one—she goes out nowhere—she is even ‘not at home,’ or ‘too ill to receive’ to the clergyman’s wife.”
“Do you not believe she is ill, then?” asked Mr. Chichelee.
“I met her out driving one day last week, and I am sure she then looked like a ghost,” added Mrs. Enmoor. “I was quite shocked to see her.”
“But she adopts no means to get well.”
“I hear she is having that place of hers in Sussex put into thorough order,” said Mr. Chichelee. “No doubt she will soon be leaving Marshlands now; and that reminds me—has anything been heard of the missing heir?”