"I'm really troubled about Fanny," said Mrs. Markland to her husband, as they sat looking out upon the fading landscape, as the twilight deepened.
"Where is she? I've not had a glimpse of her since tea."
"In her own room, I suppose, where she now spends the greater part of her time. She has become reserved, and her eyes grow moist, and her cheeks flushed, if you speak to her suddenly."
"You must seek her confidence," said Mr. Markland.
"I want that without the apparent seeking," was answered. "She knows me as her truest friend, and I am waiting until she comes to me in the most unreserved freedom."
"But will she come?"
"Oh, yes! yes!"—was the confidently-spoken answer. "Soon her heart will be laid open to me like the pages of a book, so that I can read all that is written there."
"Mr. Lyon awakened a strong interest in her feelings—that is clearly evident."
"Too strong; and I cannot but regard his coming to Woodbine Lodge as a circumstance most likely to shadow all our future."
"I do really believe," said Mr. Markland, affecting a playful mood, "that you have a latent vein of superstition in your character."