she usually spent it in that self-same chair, in that self-same position. 

She was twenty-five, the youngest daughter of old Thomas Mivart, who was squire of Neneford, in Northamptonshire, a well-known hunting-man of his day, who had died two years ago leaving a widow, a charming lady, who lived alone at the Manor. To me it had always been a mystery why the craving for gaiety and amusement had never seized Ethelwynn. She was by far the more beautiful of the pair, the smartest in dress, and the wittier in speech, for possessed of a keen sense of humour, she was interesting as well as handsome--the two qualities which are _par excellence_ necessary for a woman to attain social success. 

She stirred slightly as she broke the silence, and then I detected in her a nervousness which I had not noticed on first entering the room. "Sir Bernard Eyton was down here yesterday and spent over an hour with the old gentleman. They sent the nurse out of the room and talked together for a long time, upon some private business, nurse thinks. When Sir Bernard came down he told me in confidence that Mr. Courtenay was distinctly weaker."

"Yes," I said, "Sir Bernard told me that, but I must confess that to-night I find a decided improvement in him. He's sitting up quite lively." 

"Very different to a month ago," my well-beloved remarked. "Do you recollect when Short went to London in a hansom and brought you down at three in the morning?" 

"I gave up all hope when I saw him on that occasion," I said; "but he certainly seems to have taken a new lease of life." 

"Do you think he really has?" she inquired with an undisguised eagerness which struck me as distinctly curious. "Do you believe that Sir Bernard's fears are after all ungrounded?" 

I looked at her surprised. She had never before evinced such a keen interest in her sister's husband, and I was puzzled. 

"I really can't give an opinion," I responded mechanically, for want of something or other to say. 

It was curious, that question of hers--very curious. 

Yet after all I was in love--and all lovers are fools in their jealousy. 

CHAPTER IV. A NIGHT CALL.

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